Along By Your Side I Was Flying
by LyricallyObsessed33
Summary: When her manager suggests a night of fun for her hard work in the studio, Santana's stunned that it involves a strip club on masquerade night. When she finds herself drawn to the blue eyes of one of the dancers, her summer tour plans change with a simple lap dance.
1. Prologue

A/N: Everything in third person is present day, and everything in Santana's pov is from the past, back when Santana and Brittany first met and how things unfolded. Thank you to my betas Chrissy and Bekah.

* * *

**Prologue – Baby Please, Don't Forget You Love Me**

_Los Angeles, September 2015._

* * *

Brittany jogged up her driveway, the slow fall breeze whipping her ponytail over her shoulders. Her clothes clung to her slightly sweaty body as she hopped up the three steps to her mini porch. Her keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked her front door, Jasper's startled bark meeting her in the foyer.

"Hey buddy," she greeted with a smile. She gave his black scruffy head a happy pat before he turned back to the living room, content that she wasn't a stranger.

Brittany dropped her keys in a bowl on the hallway table, bending to pick up her mail that was scattered across the floor from her flap in the door. She paused when she saw her name scrawled across a brown package, the handwriting hauntingly familiar.

She suddenly felt a little dizzy, the rush of her three-mile run and the past swirling and mixing together. She wasn't sure if she needed a cool shower or to throw up.

The rest of her mail was forgotten on the ground as she walked in a daze toward the kitchen. She hadn't realized she was shaking until she looked down at her hands. Brittany flipped the package over and over in trembling hands, wondering how she even knew where to address the giant envelope.

She sat down at her kitchen table, the weight of the package slapping against the wood with a loud plop as she tried to steady her breathing. Her finger ran over the handwriting tentatively, as if just feeling the same area she had once touched would spark something she wasn't ready for.

Jasper settled by her feet under the table, his head resting with a tired sigh in her lap. She brought one of her hands down to scratch behind his ear, taking the distraction to calm herself as she continued to look over the front of the package. The handwriting was still so beautiful and small, practiced and perfect, just like she last remembered.

Jasper nudged against her hand when it stopped moving, and she looked down to meet imploring brown eyes. She was sure if he could talk he would tell her to stop being a coward and just open it.

"I know. But what if…what…I don't know." Brittany sighed, lowering her head as her hand smoothed over the fur around his muzzle.

He whimpered, seeming to understand, and Brittany was thankful she had picked him out two years ago.

They. They had picked him out, she corrected.

She was all of a sudden angry. How dare she get in contact with her after all this time. How dare she make her feel nauseated and excited at the same time.

She shook her head, trying to clear her anger and muddled thoughts as she looked at the package one more time. She knew there was no other option but to open it. She knew the moment she saw it that she would open it. Her curiosity of wanting to know what she had to say would get the better of her.

Chipped purple nails scratched under the sticky lip of the package, breaking the seal as it slid from one end to the other. She opened the flimsy material with still slightly shaky hands, pulling the contents from its shell.

A book with a picture of an open road and two girls standing in the middle of it holding hands stared up at her. _Never Let Me Go_ was written across the top, Santana's name printed near the bottom. A folded piece of paper was uncovered as she flipped the book over, her brow raised in confusion as she tried to piece everything together.

She unfolded the paper, immediately hating herself for trusting that this package would have answers. That it would hold hope. That it would finally give her closure.

Because all it did was make her eyes water with unshed tears as she looked down at a letter addressed to her. The first words they had spoken to each other in almost two years. She wasn't sure she could read it. She didn't understand why now. And why there was a book with Santana's name on it. She didn't understand anything all of a sudden.

And the thing she hated the most was that she was going to have to read the letter to find out.

She inhaled deeply, holding the air in her lungs for a moment before letting it out in a long sigh. She would be okay. She would be fine. She could read this without crying.

_Brittany,_

_I saw that commercial today. I was eating a bowl of oatmeal when it came on, my spoon stopping halfway between the kitchen island and my mouth. It was over before it really started, and I dropped my spoon back into my bowl._

_I wasn't hungry anymore._

_Some days I wonder how you're doing. If you're seeing someone. A girl? A guy? If you're happy. _

_Some days I call in sick from work and eat chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in bed, watching reruns of Buffy and crying. Quinn calls and yells, but then eventually comes over and joins me. She may not like it, but she's a good friend._

_Some days I ask about you. I want to know if you're still working. If you're still dancing. The thought of you not dancing is more heartbreaking than not seeing you at all. Dancing has always been your job, but it's also your art. It's the way you communicate. It's the way you love. And if I had ruined that for you, I would never be able to forgive myself._

_Work is steady for me. My new single came out a few weeks ago and I really hope you don't hear it. You're the only one who'll get its meaning. _

_You were always the one who got the meanings to my songs. _

_Even Quinn didn't understand half of them and she's been my best friend for almost thirteen years._

_I thought about calling you. Texting you. Writing you. But none of it seemed enough. Sometimes it seemed too much. I'm sure you understand. _

_Actually I'm not sure you do. But I don't want to argue about it again. It's not important._

_Or maybe it is. And maybe that's the reason you're not here now. Because I refused to talk about it. Because I refused to see things your way. Because I refused, period. _

_Sam made me take a creative writing course at NYU this past summer. He told me it would help. And I think it did._

_That's actually what this is about._

_I'm going to write a book. Well I already wrote one. Which probably isn't as much of a shock to you as it is to me. You know me better than I know myself apparently._

_I wanted to write our story. To remember it. To have it forever, even if I can't have you. It made me remember things I've forgotten, or things I had forced myself to forget. Made me realize things I didn't while we were together. It just made me feel something again._

_I haven't been the same without you. It's ridiculous really, because for so long I prided myself on not needing anyone. I believed that sex could just be sex, and feelings were weaknesses._

_But you changed that. You made sure I let down every wall I had built and let you in. And now you're gone, and I'm not sure what I'm meant to do. _

_My music is sadder. My concerts are less thrilling. _

_I no longer feel the adrenaline rush of performing without you._

_And quite frankly it pisses me off. To the point where I want to find you, shake you, and yell at you for making me fall in love with you. _

_But I know it would be pointless. _

_It wouldn't change anything._

_Because it's my fault you're not here. Not yours._

_I really am sorry. And I really do hope you're happy. Because you deserve that more than anyone. _

_Please don't let anyone steal the fire in your eyes. You are rare. There aren't many people in this world who can literally bring sunshine to a rainy day. _

_And I'm pretty sure I will always love you because of that. _

_I'm not publishing this for anyone else. It's just for you. To know the truth, and as an official apology. I know it's too late. I know it doesn't change things. I know._

_But this is my way of finally doing the right thing. Of finally telling the truth. Of finally being honest with myself._

_Just read it. Please. _

_And remember with me._

_-Santana_

Brittany let the paper fall to the table, the ends folding in on themselves from the creases already made. Her eyes stung and her heart hurt. Everything hurt. She felt heavy and sad and unable to do anything about it.

She wanted to rewind time and throw away the package when she first saw it sitting on her foyer floor.

She picked up the book again, examining the cover like it held new meaning. She didn't notice before, but the picture was oddly familiar. The outfits. The hair. The scenery.

Brittany shook her head with a heavy sigh at the realization. It was a copy of one of their pictures from that summer. The picture she had had framed for display, that now resided at the bottom of her sweats drawer in her dresser.

She shook her head again, disbelieving what was in front of her. It was too late.

It was just too late.

Brittany left the book and letter to burn holes into her kitchen table as she showered and changed into a pair of yellow Victoria Secret sweatpants and a white v-neck shirt. She took her time brushing her hair and moisturizing her face. Her eyes were still a little puffy and her skin a little blotchy from where she had broken down in the shower under the disguise of the radio. She didn't want Jasper to worry if he heard her crying. He always hated it when she cried.

When she ran out of things to do, she slowly made her way back to the kitchen, trying her hardest to ignore the table as she opened the fridge for a bottle of green iced tea.

She knew once she started reading she would never be able to stop until she finished. And she wasn't sure she was ready.

She wasn't sure she could handle what the pages of that book held.

Brittany walked to the living room, plopping down on the couch next to the beast before flipping through the channels. After thirty minutes of finding nothing, her mind in the kitchen and what it contained, she knew she had no choice. There was absolutely no way she'd be able to fall asleep tonight if she didn't.

Her feet carried her back to the kitchen until she was hovering over it. It mocked her like a picture of a life she no longer had.

She took the book back to the living room, settling on the couch with a fresh glass of wine. She tucked her feet underneath her, Jasper curling into her side as she opened the front cover.

_Never Let Me Go_

_by Santana Lopez_

The words flashed up at her as she turned the page.

_To my sunshine. You found me when I didn't realize I needed to be found._

Brittany almost closed the book right there. But she couldn't. A part of her would always wonder what she wrote. A part of her would always want to know why. A part of her would always want Santana and everything she had, including the pages of this book.

She took a healthy sip of wine before turning to the first chapter.


	2. Chapter One

A/N: Thank you for all the kind words! I'm excited for this journey with all of you too :) Thanks to Chrissy and Bekah.

* * *

**Chapter One – A Rush of Blood to the Head**

_Los Angeles, March 2013._

* * *

The tinted windows darken the city lights as they fly by. I feel like they're almost hypnotizing to the point of comfort. A constant in a sea of change as I make my way back out of Hollywood.

I'm exhausted and really just want to curl up on my couch and catch up on my DVR. But my manager has other plans apparently, because as soon as the car turns down Sunset Boulevard, he's turning in his seat and handing me a bag of clothes.

"What's this?" I know my face is a picture of confusion and disgust, probably a little tiredness as well. I know this because he laughs at me with a playful roll of his eyes.

"You're going out tonight." Sam smiles, pressing the bag further into my lap. When my face falls and I look at him like he's crazy, he only smiles wider. "You've worked hard all week in the studio. It's time to relax a bit and have some fun."

"My idea of fun for the evening is a date with my couch and a container of Chinese take out," I bite back, turning my head back towards the passing lights. People say a downfall to living in the city is you never get to see the stars. But city lights can be just as pretty. They sparkle and gleam against the night sky, the different buildings like various constellations. It's what drove me to the city in the first place.

"Santana you need a night out. You haven't had a date in - "

"How the hell would you know when my last date was?" I bark. I'm beyond annoyed now. He has no right to tell me how shitty my dating life has been the past couple of weeks. Work has been rigorous, and he knows that. That's why he should know that I could really just use a quiet night at home and a bottle of good red wine.

"How 'bout we don't play games and you just acknowledge that I might know what's best for you." He smiles that dopey smile he has, that almost makes him look like he has to poop. But it's infectious and I can never stay annoyed with him for long. He's the only one on my side in the studio when I say I need a day off or when I think a track doesn't sound good with my lyrics.

"Where?" I breathe between clenched teeth, hoping he understands how much I really don't want to agree to this.

But he seems to soften and realize that he at least has my attention because his smile only grows, his eyebrows disappearing between his golden hair. "A strip club." He winks, and I feel my face lift in shock as he starts to laugh at me again.

"A strip club? Sam, are you fucking serious? Why are you making me go to a strip club?" I can feel my cheeks warm at the idea, and I turn my head to duck away from his glare.

"Yes. A strip club," he repeats and I can tell he's still smiling by the lightness in his voice.

"I don't think that's a good idea." The car feels too small all of a sudden, and it makes me wish I had driven myself this morning. "I can't be seen at a strip club." I exhale, leaning my head against the passenger window as I watch the buildings again.

Sam sighs and reaches over a tentative hand to cover mine on my lap, squeezing gently until I'm forced to look back at him. "Do you trust me?"

I scoff because he should already know the answer to that question.

"I'm serious." He squeezes again, looking at me from underneath the scruff of his too long blonde hair. I told him he should get it cut since it's almost spring, but he's convinced the ladies love the shaggy look. I nod as an answer, smiling just a little to prove to him I mean it, even if I'm unsure what it has to do with tonight and a strip club.

"Just because your contract with the label says you can't be seen out partying, doesn't mean you can't do it. It just means you have to be discreet about it." Sam smiles as we approach a red light. He looks at me fully, and I flinch a little under his scrutiny.

"What does that mean?" I ask, but he's silent as the light changes and he looks back to the road. He points at the bag in my lap instead, hinting for me to look inside.

I wait a minute, trying to prove to him that I'm still not keen on the idea. When my fingers find the feathers of a masquerade mask, my stomach jolts as I pull it the rest of the way out. "What the hell?"

"It's a mask." Sam grins, bouncing a little in his seat as he makes another turn.

"No shit Sherlock. Why is it in my hands?" I grumble, looking through the rest of the bag to make sure there's no whips or some other shit I should worry about.

"I found a club that's having a masquerade night. Everyone must wear masks." He looks at me when I don't respond, nodding his head as if the answer is blatantly obvious. "No one will know who you are." He chuckles, shaking his head like he does when he feels he's pulling my teeth for a reaction.

I scoff at the idea, mulling it over in my head. It is appealing to be able to go out without having pictures and gossip spread over the internet the following morning. But at the same time it's a strip club. Why would Sam think I'd be interested in seeing women dance in too little clothing?

"Strip clubs can be fun for both girls and guys darling." Sam adds as if he can read my mind. I chuckle. The kind that's not heartfelt at all as I think about it.

It becomes painfully obvious I have no choice though because Sam's thrusting the rest of the bag further into my lap, hinting that I need to get changed before we get there.

"I'm not changing in the car you perv."

"You don't have a choice. We'll be there in fifteen minutes." He smiles, and it's really hard not to smile back, no matter how hard I try. "Plus, if I would have given you the clothes to change into before we left, you would have caught a cab home."

I laugh at that because he does know me too well.

"Fine." I gripe back, pulling out my favorite red dress he conveniently packed for me. I slip into the back seat, my shirt over my head in the process.

The dress is pulled up and over my chest by the time he says we're turning on to the street the club is on. I make sure the zipper is secure before running my hands through my hair. The curls I had made this morning are now dead, and there's no use trying to make them bounce again. I decide to pull it into a loose side braid, finishing as he's throwing the mask back at me as we pull into the parking lot. He heads for the VIP access, pulling on his own mask.

The black strap easily fits around my head, somewhat blending in with my hair. I let out one last sigh as he's looking back at me with his beady eyes and excited grin, before pulling the mask over my eyes, shielding me from curious eyes and nosy photographers.

Sam takes care of everything. He gives the valet the keys, whispering something into his ear in passing. He leads me by the arm through the doors, and I'm thankful he brought my black pumps as we climb a few stairs up to the club.

The room is dark and faintly red, colored lights blinking in rapid succession. Everyone is wearing masks, some more exquisite than others, and the low hum of the music reverberates through my chest as we make our way toward the bar. I can see dancers out of the corner of my eye, black lingerie covering the parts of their body the men sitting around them desperately want to see. More girls walk through the small club with trays of drinks, offering them to guys in suits that sit in leather chairs, the scent of cigar smoke billowing from them like cologne.

Were they like me? Just looking for a good time without paparazzi nipping at their heels? Wanting to let loose without the headline gossip and the forced public statement? Were they regulars who came here often?

Sam sits down in one of the bar stools, and I follow suit, hoping he'll continue to take the reins because I have no clue what's normal protocol in a strip club. He orders us drinks, and I take my time to look around the place.

There are three tiny stages, each with their own pole front and center. There's a girl on the center stage, and I can feel my cheeks warm instantly as she wraps her leg around the pole and spins, dropping to her knees. Her red pumps push against the stage, her calf muscles rippling as she rises back to her feet.

I turn away, feeling guilty and awkward, and completely unsure as to why. There's a drink waiting for me, and I purse my lips at the strong and sweet taste that coats my tongue with my first stip.

Sam waves his hand and gets up off his stool, motioning that he's going to sit closer to the stage. I nod, deciding I'd rather stay where I am. I watch him walk away with a smile and wish I could relax like he is.

"Another?" A voice asks behind me. I swivel in my seat, tearing my eyes from Sam's retreating form and the blurry image of stripper girl's performance. A woman with burnt auburn hair and matching eyes smiles at me, nodding her head at my empty glass.

I wasn't even aware I had taken more than one sip, let alone downed the entire thing.

"Sure." I place my empty glass on the bar and turn back towards the stage. I don't want to watch, but at the same time I can't stop watching. There's something about it that I don't really understand. It wasn't arousing. I don't know how men get aroused at watching this, but it was intriguing to the point that I wanted to know more.

"You know you can get your own private show." Bar lady speaks as she sets a fresh vodka and cranberry in front of me. I shoot her a questioning look, my heart racing for reasons I don't know. "A lap dance sweet cheeks." She adds with a smirk and a wink, picking up a still steaming clean glass and drying it.

I knew I was blushing now, and I try to cover it up by taking a sip of my drink.

"Oh don't get shy on me honey." She smiles, her teeth so bright in the dim light of the nightclub.

"I…" I swallow thickly. I am nervous, and I'm not exactly sure why. "I'm just here for a drink." I smile a little harshly. I wish Sam was sitting beside me and not currently fawning over a girl he could never have.

"Honey, if you were only looking for a drink, there's plenty of other bars in Hollywood for that. The name's Bridget by the way." She flashes her white teeth again and sticks out her hand. I eye it before shaking it with my own. There was something about her that made her likable, even if she was making me very uncomfortable. "A little tip." She smirks, watching me closely as if I'm some damn panda in a zoo. "If you plan on coming back here, I'd make up a name to tell people."

She towel dries another glass, her smile never wavering. A man approaches the bar a few seats down, and Bridget excuses herself to take care of him.

Make a name up? Were Sam and I really going to come back here?

Bridget returns with another drink, my still half full one cradled in my hands. "Think of one yet sweet cheeks?"

"Why do you keep calling me sweet cheeks?" I question because it's getting kind of annoying. She's so confident and persistent, flirting almost, and I flush at that thought. Was this woman flirting with me? Was it part of her job to flirt with every customer so she got good tips?

"Sweetie, you do realize what you look like right? I mean, no offense, but with those big, pouty lips and that little number you have on, every guy in here is probably salivating at the chance to buy you a drink."

She's definitely flirting, and I'm not quite sure what to do in response. I've never had a woman flirt with me before. I was always the one doing the flirting.

I shrug my shoulders and force a tight smile across my face. "Scarlett."

"What?" She cocks her head to the side, eyeing me as the floor erupts in a low cheer as the now topless girl on stage walks back through the curtains.

"You can call me Scarlett," I clarify, smirking over the top of my glass, pleased with myself and my choice of name.

"Ah," she smiles and nods.

Now she knows she has me hooked because it doesn't take long for me to ask her to explain, inching a little forward in my seat to rest my elbows against the bar. She was interesting, and it was nice talking to someone so I wasn't forced to watch the stage with Sam.

"It's just, I've been working here for the past five years, and you can tell a lot about a person by the name they choose for themselves." Her voice is soothing in a way it shouldn't be. She reminds me of those sorority girls that talk like walking barbies, except she was definitely more intelligent and the slight pitch in her voice wasn't like nails on a chalkboard.

"Oh really? And what does mine say about me?" My voice is light and bubbly. Was I flirting back? I cough a little and take another sip, finishing my second drink and reaching for my third.

"Well scarlet is a shade of red, but it's deeper and richer in color. Usually associated with passion or fire," Bridget begins, wiping up the bar in front of me with a rag before leaning over it. Her shirt falls open in the process, my eyes automatically dropping to her cleavage before I even realize what I'm doing.

The gesture doesn't go unnoticed, and I now know she's flirting with me.

"Scarlet is not a weak color, but rather full bodied and strong, often symbolizing sexual sins. I'm guessing you're a strong woman who doesn't take shit from anyone. You know what you want, and you lead your life with passion, whether for your career or your relationships. I'm assuming you like to be in control in the bedroom, but probably have a big kink for someone topping you."

I'm past the point of being shy. Whether it's due to the alcohol or the flirting, I'm not sure, but I find her analysis amusing and kind of accurate. Before I even realize what I'm saying, I'm leaning further onto the bar, smirking at her with a buzzing energy that has found its way through my senses. "Is that an offer?" I play right back, shocked at the words leaving my lips.

She chuckles and shakes her head, eyes bright as she licks her lips. "Sorry sweet cheeks. I try not to make a habit of sleeping with the customers." She winks and I instantly like her. I can tell we would be good friends, her brash sarcasm and flirtatious tongue matching mine. "But I know someone who would be perfect for you."

On the outside, my eyebrow rises in question, challenging her. On the inside, my stomach clenches and my throat instantly dries. Was I really flirting with a woman? Was I really taking about having sex with a woman? Was she really setting me up with another woman?

I don't know whether to be offended or flattered, so I busy myself with my drink to give me some time. I was nervous at how much I actually liked flirting with her. It was different than flirting with a guy somehow. Not better or worse, just different.

"But she only does the private shows. You know, the ones you said you weren't interested in." She smirks, picking up my now empty glass. "In fact, here she comes with a tray of drinks." Bridget points over my shoulder.

I turn on my bar stool, my right leg crossing over my left. I squint past the fluorescent bright lights as they flash over the club, spotting her instantly. Purple pumps and black, knee high stockings cover creamy legs. Her thighs, milky and muscular, flex as she lowers the tray to disperse the drinks. The black and purple corset and matching panties accentuates her hips and torso, pushing up her breasts and making them appear to be bigger than what they probably are. Long blonde hair falls over sculpted shoulders. And her eyes. I don't know what it is about them, but they're like anchors. The bluest I've ever seen, like the clear water of Tropical oceans. Even from across the club I can see them sparkle under the lights as they play across her face.

She's beautiful.

I shake my head of the thought.

Were girls allowed to think other girls were beautiful?

Of course. I've seen enough blogs to know girls find me attractive. But I'm pretty sure most of them are gay judging by their comments.

Does it make a difference?

I was all of a sudden confused and overwhelmed as my brain grew fuzzy with the mix of alcohol and questions I never had before. I didn't know what was acceptable or not, and I felt stupid for not knowing, and also for caring. It shouldn't matter what was acceptable. I like guys. That doesn't mean I can't appreciate a breathtaking woman.

Beautiful. Beautiful woman, I correct, mentally kicking my mind for being so flustered.

"Her name is Lily." Bridget smirks when I turn back around.

_I'll call her whatever she wants me too_, I think before I can stop myself.

My stomach's doing weird things, like it's fucking part of the Olympic gymnastics team or something, and I know my face is red because my cheeks are warm at every thought that's crossing my mind. I turn back to look at Lily to hide my obvious blushing, and watch as she smiles and flirts with the men she was serving. I can tell they're ogling her breasts as the tops of them spill over the corset as she bends to pick up the carrying tray.

For some reason I want to smack them.

"Does she like women?" I ask, embarrassed that I care. Who cares if she likes women, it's her job to flirt with every paying customer in the building. What did it matter, and I can't for the life of me figure out why I asked, but I sit and wait for the answer.

"Lily likes everyone." Bridget beams, setting down another full glass for me.

I've lost count of the number I'm on.

"But she's expensive because she's good at what she does," she adds, and I have to pinch my lips together to prevent myself from saying something else embarrassing. Like admitting that money doesn't matter because of who I am. Or even admitting that it doesn't matter because I want to get a dance from her no matter the charge.

Was I really contemplating getting a dance from her?

I watch Lily taunt the men with lingering eyes and a sly smile. She was good. I can practically see the drool from some of the men from where I'm sitting.

As she turns to make her way back across the club, her eyes catch mine. I feel shocked. Like someone had taken jumper cables to me and started me up like a dead battery. It courses through me, hitting me between my thighs, and I cough at the sudden sensation. She turns away almost as suddenly, and I'm left frozen, wondering what the hell just happened.

The only thing I do know is that I have to see her again.

"So. You were saying something about a dance?" I turn and ask Bridget, downing my new drink in almost one gulp.

She laughs and shakes her head. "You're too easy, Scarlett. Too easy."

* * *

Sam joins me some time later, nursing his own drink as he smiles goofily when he plops down next to me. "You've been sitting here the whole time?" He sort of slurs, and I wonder how many drinks he's had. More importantly I wonder how we're getting home because neither of us are in a position to drive.

I nod around the straw of my drink, leaning into him a little. I want to ask him about Lily and if it's okay for me to get a dance from her, but I'm not sure I want to tell him. Is it bad that I want to keep her a secret? Is it proof that I shouldn't be having whatever feelings I'm having towards her?

He pats my head and laughs, a low bubbly laugh that makes me warm. He's such a good friend. But he's also a good manager. He's a good frienager.

I laugh at my own joke and he looks at me funny. Before I can explain what I'm laughing at, someone taps me on my shoulder. I whirl around to one of the guys in a business suit, the mixture of nicotine and alcohol staining his teeth as he smiles at me.

"Can I buy you a drink?" He asks, his eyes roaming down to my cleavage and then dropping to my bare crossed legs.

"I'ms good." I slur, holding up my drink as if to prove I'm good.

He smiles and I wish Sam would say something, but when I look back to where he's sitting, he isn't there. I twist my head around to look for him, but I can't find him and my blurry vision isn't really helping.

"Where's Sam?" I ask to no one in particular.

The guy standing next to me puts his hand on my shoulder, still smiling down at me. "He went to the bathroom." I nod, thankful he knew.

How did he know? Had we been talking that long? I thought he had just come over.

I shake my head, my mind so fuzzy. I curse myself for getting so drunk so quickly, so I set my drink on the bar, deciding to take a break so I can sober up a little.

His hand grips my shoulder harder, his fingers digging into my skin as she bends low to whisper in my ear. "How 'bout the two of us leave this place and continue this party somewhere that's a little more private," he states instead of asks.

I shake my head again, but I end up kind of falling into him. I try and push against him to excuse myself to the bathroom, when a voice like summer rain speaks behind me.

"Sir. Your next round is at your table." I turn and am met with those crystal blue eyes. I stare into them, wondering how they're so blue and so clear. I hear the man huff and walk away, and I almost topple off the barstool. But she catches me, giggling as she holds me up.

Her laughter makes me feel like I'm drowning in bubbling champagne. It's so light and contagious that I start laughing too.

"You okay?" She speaks directly to me, and I feel dizzy again. She has the most intoxicating voice, like an old record playing on a Sunday afternoon. All I can do is smile, and she giggles that heavenly giggle again. I swear it's what angels sound like. I want more than anything to keep making her laugh like that.

She looks like she's going to say something else, but Sam returns and looks at me like I have three heads.

"Hi." He smiles at her, and I'm glad he's back. I feel too out of control with my feelings and words right now, and I definitely don't need to embarrass myself. But when she looks at me as they talk back and forth, I feel like she's unraveling me, and I want to stop biting my tongue and just say everything that's on my mind.

But I know it's a bad idea. So I just sit there and watch them converse.

When she leaves Sam sits back down, taking my unfinished drink and finishing it for me. "She's nice. And very, very attractive." He comments, placing the empty glass back on the bar.

"She does private dances," I half shout. He laughs and nods. I think he knows I'm a little drunk as well. "I want one." I say before I can stop myself, and my eyes widen as they look at him for a reaction.

"Now there's the fun I was talking about." He smiles and squeezes my arm. It's definitely not the reaction I was expecting, and it takes me a minute to realize what he's said. He actually thinks it's a good idea.

"You don't think it's weird or anything?" I ask to make sure. If he didn't think it was weird, why should I?

"Hell no. There's nothing wrong with experiencing a lap dance. I think everyone should at some point in their life." He makes it sound like it's a rite of passage, and I feel my hands unclench at the admission. Sam thinks it's fine. Then it should be fine.

My throat dries when I try and picture what exactly is going to happen when I do get the dance. The only thing I do know is that I want to be a lot more sober than I am now when it happens.

* * *

Sam disappears again, muttering something about his own private show. Now that he's gone and I'm left to think about things once more, I start to freak out again. This isn't normal. Girls don't get lap dances from other girls.

But it was her job. And Bridget made it seem like Lily gave dances to everyone, not just guys.

It was just something fun. The kind of fun Sam supposedly wanted me to have when he brought me here.

I finish the water Bridget had given me to sober up a little and watch as a guy approaches a black curtain. Someone opens it and they talk before he steps behind it.

That must be where the private dances are.

I slide off the barstool and make sure I'm steady on my feet before I start to walk. The room is a lot less fuzzy and I'm starting to regain the feeling in my lips as I smack them together nervously.

I walk to the curtain on slightly shaky legs. Was I supposed to just stand here and wait? Would she come out for me? Of course not, she didn't even know I was coming back here. Should I go back there? I felt so nervous, and angry that I was nervous in the first place.

I almost fell back when the curtain opened and a big black guy stood in front of me. He motions with his head for me to step through, and when I do, he releases the curtain and it snaps back in place behind me. I'm facing a long, dark hallway with so many doors on each side. There was a ton of different songs playing, mixing together in the hall like a soft lullaby. Which is odd because I'm pretty sure that whatever was going on in each room to the different songs was not appropriate for a lullaby.

"Do you have a preference?" the man asks, forcing me to turn back to look at him. He's standing in front of a glowing computer screen, and I'm not sure what exactly he's asking. When he looks up and sees the confusion on my face, his facial features soften just the slightest. "A dancer. Do you have a preference on the dancer ma'am?" he asks again.

"Oh. Um, yeah. Lily." I know my voice is shaky, and I just pray that I can keep it together long enough to not make a spectacle of myself. I'm pretty sure it's already obvious enough that it's my first time doing something like this.

He nods his head and pushes something on the screen. "What would you like?" He asks a little more impatiently. I look at him again with confusion because I thought I just told him what I wanted. When he sees me pause again, the slightest hint of a smile forms in the corners of his mouth. "What service do you want?" He tries again, but I still don't know how to answer. "I don't know what to charge you if you don't pick a service."

"Oh, um…" I try to think, but I have no idea. What usually happens behind these closed doors? "I guess the usual?" I question, hoping that it's a service they offer.

He smiles and nods, turning to punch something into the screen. "That'll be $350."

I almost choke on the spit in my mouth. Three hundred and fifty dollars for a lap dance? That's ridiculous. Or is that the normal price? What if the usual involves more than just a lap dance?

But I couldn't turn away. I didn't want to. I hand him the cash from my clutch and wait for further instruction.

When he's done at the computer, he turns back around and hands me a receipt, and tells me to go to room three.

I do as I'm told, my heels clapping against the floor as I walk. I am now thankful for the loud mix of music because it serves as a good mask for my nerves. I'm sure if it wasn't playing I'd be able to hear my heartbeat in my ears.

I swallow dryly, willing myself to calm down as I grip the door handle and open it. It was empty, and I breathe a sigh of relief at that fact. I desperately need a few minutes to collect myself. There's a pole in the center of a circular table, and a round couch sitting around the table. Two of the walls are complete floor length mirrors, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress before closing the door.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I feel stupid for the fact I had agreed to do this in the first place, and also for the fact that I'm acting like a teenage boy that's never seen a naked woman before.

But I have never seen a naked woman before. Not like this. Not so _personal_.

Would I still feel as nervous if I was waiting to get a private show from a guy?

I decide I'm being beyond foolish and sit down on the couch to wait. It was just one dance. One dance wouldn't kill me, and it definitely didn't mean anything beyond the fact that she was just doing her job, and I was a paying customer just having a good time.

I cross my leg over the other, letting it bobble against my shin as I sit. I feel too nervous sitting though. What if she didn't want me sitting? What if I was supposed to wait for her to enter and tell me what I should do? I'm about to get up and walk around when the door handle jingles and it beings to open.

"Hi." She smiles so sweetly once I see the recognition in her eyes. Was she glad that it was me? Did she want me to be here?

"Hi." I manage behind a shy smirk. I hope more than anything that she can't tell how nervous I am.

"How are you?" She asks as she steps further into the room. It's so normal that I almost forget what we're really doing. "You seem a little more sober than the last time I saw you." She giggles, and it does something low in my stomach that I can't name.

I let out an anxious chuckle, willing my foot to stop shaking. "I'm good."

"Just relax." She smiles reassuringly when she notices my restless foot. "Joe said you paid for the usual?" She questions, and I can't tell if she's genuinely happy about it or if she's just doing her job.

"I didn't know…" I trail off, not really sure how to explain. Did she know this was my first time doing something like this? Did she have any clue who I was and why I was here instead of another club? Most importantly, did she know the strange effect she had on me that I couldn't even explain? Was this how all her clients felt? Was she like this with everyone?

Of course she was, this was her job. She was paid to make people feel good and desired.

"Relax," she repeats. "We'll do whatever you want to do, okay?" Her smile is so genuine, that I feel my heart flutter. There is something about her and the way she looks at me that instantly draws me toward her. I honestly would have been just as happy to talk to her for the next thirty minutes and get to know her as a person. "I'm Lily," she introduces, sticking out her hand.

"Scarlett." I answer, looking down at her hand a little skeptically. I was pretty sure we weren't allowed to touch the dancers. Wasn't that one of the rules?

She seems to sense my hesitancy and just smiles wider. "It's okay. I trust you not to grope me." She winks playfully, and I feel my cheeks warm. I take her hand in mine and instantly want to never let go. She has the smoothest skin. Like liquid butter, warm and sweet.

"Scarlett," she repeats. "I like that." It feels good having her say my name, and it makes me hate it at the same time. Because all I can think about is having my real name fall from her lips.

I shake my head again. What is wrong with me?

She pulls her hand from mine before skipping to the stereo system set up in the corner of the room. Blonde ringlets bounce across her bare shoulders, the heels of her pumps tapping along the floor as she moves. Even doing a mundane task such as putting on music she looks elegant and graceful, turning walking into a dance of its own. She presses a few buttons, and the room is immersed in pulsing beats.

My eyes follow her as she taps back to the center of the room, her movements smooth and effortless, almost like she is floating. I'm completely hypnotized as she hops up on the mini stage in front of me, her hands gripping the pole as she swings in a tiny circle.

"You're really pretty." She grins, unzipping the leather jacket she's wearing.

My breath hitches in my throat. The words coupled with the slow unveiling of her porcelain skin makes the room feel fifty degrees warmer than it did a second ago. Was this normal? Was it okay to feel like this?

I'm pretty sure anyone sitting in front of her as she was undressing would feel the same way.

The valley between her breasts is smooth and perfect, and I'm hit with the sudden urge to touch her. Just to appreciate how beautiful she is, not in a sexual way.

Maybe.

I squeeze my thighs together as I swallow, trying to force my body to keep it together as it reacts to her in ways I'm not used to or a hundred percent comfortable with. My eyes stay wide and alert though as she unzips the jacket completely, the sides falling open to reveal the sides of her round breasts. My eyes lower to her hipbones and the way they frame her black and purple panties that clip to the garters on her knee high stockings.

I want to look away, but I can't. I feel hot all over, and the clenching between my thighs is nothing new, but I'm a little shocked at the feeling because of its source. Maybe she was just a ridiculously attractive female and everyone got turned on watching her perform. Maybe that was just part of her charm.

Her hips begin to sway to the beat, her eyes locked on mine and I feel frozen. My nails dig into my thighs as she dances. Her leg curls around the pole, sending her body in a slow turn as the muscles in her arms support her twirl. Was she aware of the effect she was having on me? Was I supposed to say something? Was I supposed to tip her as she danced like the ones in the main part of the club?

Her movements increase, the sides of her jacket flapping as she spins, offering small glimpses of her breasts. I feel like I'm watching a dolphin swim, how they move through the water so gracefully. She's so perfect and beautiful, like every move is practiced but definitely not stiff. She is so fluid and flawless.

She slips the jacket off her shoulders, smiling at the appreciative look I'm sure I have written all over my face. To say her breasts are beautiful would be cheesy and a gross understatement. I find myself studying them almost, as if there will be a quiz later on how pink her nipples are against her creamy skin. I lick my lips as they dry, my face growing impossibly redder.

I know she sees every expression that flashes across my face, and I know she can tell I'm blushing, but I can't stop. I can't stop looking and I can't stop my body from reacting to her.

My eyes dip lower to her stomach and I nearly whimper. She's sculpted and toned like a masterpiece. I feel envious of her body and the fact that mine will never compare to it. The other reason I'm envious I try to ignore, knowing that feeling jealous of anyone who does get to touch is just absurd. Because I shouldn't want to touch her like that.

When she spins back around to face me, she lets out a delicious and heavenly giggle. Why is she laughing at me? Can she tell how hot she is making me?

Her endless legs step off the stage and she moves until she's standing behind me. Before I know what's happening, her hands are at the base of my neck, slowly dragging down my arms. "Relax," she whispers against my ear.

I can't contain the shiver that runs down my spine. She's so close and she smells like autumn. Like the changing colors of leaves and knit sweaters. Like warm apple pie and the cool fade of summer. Like the perfect Yankee candle slowly burning on an end table.

All of a sudden she's invading every part of me, and I have no clue what I'm supposed to do. I know I can't touch her, and I'm not sure what will come out if I try and speak. Her breath is hot against my skin, and her touch is like fire. She's practically melting me, and I find myself wanting nothing more than to just let her.

Her hair tickles across my arm as she shimmies around me, until we're face to face. Her eyes are a little darker and her smile's a little smaller. More of a sly smirk. She's instantly more devilish than before, and I wish I could look away but I can't.

"What do you want me to do?" She husks, hips still moving in circles in front of me. It seems like she can't stop moving even if she tried. My eyes drop to her bouncing breasts without trying, and I gulp at how hot I feel. I shrug my shoulders as I glide my eyes over her skin, coming in contact with hers once more. She's still smirking. Still watching me carefully and I want to feel shy but I don't. I just feel hot.

Her arms rise until her hands are tangled in her hair, her hips shifting side to side as she dances in front of me. I keep my hands glued to my sides, pinching my thighs to keep from either shaking or doing something I shouldn't do. She seems to notice though, and before I can object or tell her I'm uncomfortable, she's practically sitting in my lap, her thighs bracketing my hips as she continues to move to the beat of the music.

I groan, my eyes slipping closed at the immediate heat I feel. I try and play it off as a cough, but I know she knows what she's doing to me. Her hands hook behind me, at the nape of my neck as her hip movements become more fluid and more heated. I start to feel the lace of her panties and the slight roughness of her stockings as they come in contact with my thighs. When her hair tickles across my shoulder I know I'm turned on. I can feel it growing deep within and pinching my stomach, the insides of my thighs getting warm and sticky.

I want to push her away. I want to tell her to stop. But when I look in her eyes I see something I don't recognize. And I don't want to.

Her movements still until her face softens and her hand is pushing against the top of my thigh.

I'm shaking.

"Are you okay?" She asks so softly that I feel like I'm scaring her. Like she's a child just now learning that the meat she's eating for dinner comes from an actual animal. The sudden urge to pull her close and hold her is overwhelming, and I shake my head at the notion.

She begins to back away, taking the movement of my head as the answer to her question. "I can stop." Her body is already off of mine before I can say anything, the coolness of her absence hitting me in places it really shouldn't. She's reaching for her jacket, as I will my body to do something. To say something. To stop her from feeling like she's being rejected because she's not good enough.

She is. She's too good.

"Wait..I just…" I swallow to try and buy some time and she pauses with zippering up her jacket. Her eyes are so big and all of a sudden shy, like a deer caught in headlights as she waits for me to continue. The way she's looking at me is too much and I have to turn away, my eyes dropping to the floor as I cross my legs again. Without her invading me I feel like I can think clearly again, and now I feel stupid for ever thinking this was a big deal.

I know she's still waiting for me to say something, and my cheeks burn with embarrassment. She must think I'm crazy. Or like the weirdest customer she's ever had.

She's crouching down in front of me before I even realize she's moved closer. Her hands are hesitant but soft as she slowly brings them down on my thighs again. When I turn my head to look at her, she smiles, her eyes full of concern. "Are you okay?" she repeats and I'm filled again with the urge to hug her.

I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and just nod, not trusting whatever words I might say. She squeezes my thighs lightly, and it's so much more comforting than sexual that I almost want to start crying. I think she can see that because she moves just a fraction of an inch closer and smiles wider. "I had a guy in here earlier tonight that literally fell asleep so I'd say you're doing better than him." I know she's trying to make me smile, but now all I feel is sorry for her. She probably has to deal with the shittiest people on the planet, and I know I'm not helping. She's supposed to make people feel good, and I look like I'm about to cry.

"Thanks." I manage, knowing I need to say something before she really does think I'm crazy.

"For what honey?" She softens, her eyes digging into mine like flashlights, searching the deepest corners of dark brown to find what she's looking for. What is she looking for?

I smile at how sweet she's being. How gentle and nice like it's her job to console me and take care of me when it's so obviously not. Her eyes are almost catlike, warm and inviting and the thought of cuddling on my couch as I play with her hair hits me so hard that my heart skips a beat and I have to hold my breath.

What is wrong with me?

"I'm fine," I say instead, offering her the best smile I can muster to make sure she knows I'm not lying.

She studies me a minute longer before taking what I've said as truth and stands up. She doesn't move far, just to the edge of the stage to sit down in front of me. We both know the dance is over.

"Can I ask you a question?"

She seems almost as startled as I am at my voice, but nods and smiles at me with those striking eyes.

"Why do you do this?" I know it's none of my business, but I find it hard to believe that someone as nice as her needs this job. She could do anything because it's obvious she's a people person. She drew me in the minute I saw her. She can't have trouble finding a job, so why pick this one where she has to deal with handsy pricks all night?

Her head cocks to the side and her smile drops a little, and I'm afraid I've offended her. Her eyes are looking past me now and it's obvious I shouldn't have asked.

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business," I blurt. I want to take it back because her face should never not be smiling.

She shrugs her shoulders as she refocuses back on me. "I need the money." She says it like it's so simple and like we've been friends for years. She's not ashamed, that's clear, but the tone of her voice makes it seem like she would love to do something else if she could.

"What would you like to do?" I ask, truly interested in what her answer is.

"Dance." She laughs, and it's so beautiful and fluttery, like the wings of a butterfly. "But respectable dancing gigs are few and far between…" She trails off, and I can tell it's something she's probably thought about many times by now.

I don't want to push her though, so I just nod. "I understand."

Our time must be about over because she stands again, moving to the back of the room to turn off the music. I stand too, pulling the hem of my dress back down over my thighs from where it had ridden up a little.

"I can tell Joe to give you your money back since you didn't really get a dance." She's shy again, and a little sad. And I can't tell if it's over the money or the fact that she didn't get to dance for me.

"Keep it," I quickly tell her. She gives me a look that makes me want to pinch her cheeks. Like when my crazy aunt would smile at me and say I was too cute and grab my cheeks between her fingers. "You were amazing. Are," I correct with a smile. "You're quite gifted in what you do Lily."

She giggles, looking down at the floor to mask the faint pink that rushes to her cheeks. She must realize that her jacket is still unzipped, and takes the time to pull it close. "Can I tell you a secret?"

I nod. Maybe a little too eagerly. She could tell me anything she wanted to and I'd be wiling to listen.

"My name's not really Lily." She smirks, and the truthfulness and lightness in her voice makes my chest feel too small for my heart.

I don't know why I feel the need to be honest with her too, but I do. "My name's not really Scarlett."

Her lips curl and her eyes brighten. "I didn't think you looked like a Scarlett. Your eyes are too kind."

Before I can respond, with what I'm not completely sure, she's saying goodbye and walking out the door.

Once I've recovered enough to walk back out to the main part of the club, I find Sam sitting at the bar again, flirting with Bridget.

"Hey, how was it?" He asks as I take the seat next to him. I can feel Bridget's eyes on me as well and choose to just shrug my shoulders like it's no big deal. Suddenly I want to keep it all to myself. Like what happened between us is just our little secret.

I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing.


	3. Chapter Two

A/N: Thanks to Chrissy and Bekah.

* * *

**Chapter Two – We're Only Young and Naïve Still**

_Los Angeles, March 2013._

* * *

It's only been a week and I want to see her again.

It's only been a week and I need to see her again.

If only for the sake of my career.

Even though somewhere deep inside me knows that's definitely not the reason.

All week in the studio Sam had chastised me for being so distracted. He got even more annoyed with me when I told him I was just tired and uninspired when he asked what was wrong with me. He knew it was a lie, and I hated lying to him. But I didn't want to tell him the real reason.

I didn't really know if I could tell him the real reason.

Last night I looked up the name of the club she worked at and found out that they had a masquerade night every Friday. I definitely did not spend the following twenty minutes reading her profile on their website. I wouldn't know that there wasn't a picture, but just a blurb written under the name Lily. I wouldn't know that she had gone to college for two years before moving to L.A. I wouldn't know that she had studied dance with choreographers I could only dream to work with.

I wouldn't know these things because I didn't look.

So today when I gather my stuff to leave the studio, unsuccessfully finishing the track the label wanted to release in a couple of weeks as a new single, and Sam asks me what my plans are for the evening, I pinch my lips together and tell him nothing. That tonight I'm spending time with some Real Housewives and a roll of unagi and my couch.

It sounds so perfect that I almost want to forgo my real plans.

He nods and says he's going over to his buddy's house to play video games and drink beer, and that almost sounds appealing too.

But there's a mask and a new black dress in my bag waiting to be worn. And there's a head of blonde hair and a set of blue eyes that have been haunting my dreams.

Whatever that means.

It doesn't take long to change in the studio bathroom after Sam leaves. The cab arrives a few minutes later, and I find myself nervous as we approach the club. What exactly did I expect to happen this time? Was she even going to remember me? Doubtful. She sees hundreds of people a week. There's no way in hell she'll remember me.

If she does, will I get another dance from her? Or at least try to make it through a full one this time?

I'm almost just as excited to see Bridget again, knowing she'll give me a knowing smirk and a smart-ass comment I'll love because I'm back.

The cab pulls up to the front, and I slip on my mask before paying and opening the door. There's a line of people waiting out front this time, and I hate that I can't just flash the bouncer my face to skip the line. Maybe I could. Would it really be a problem if just one person knew who I really was here?

My PR's voice rings through my ears at that thought, reminding me that it only takes one person to leak stories or pictures before others flock like honking geese. Sometimes his rules are annoying, but I know he only has my best interest at heart. Like the time he squashed the rumors that I was sleeping with Sam to get more studio time. Or some other bullshit the paps made up when they saw me leave Sam's apartment at like three in the morning.

It's not my fault that his couch is comfy and we were both way too drunk to drive all the way back to my house when he only lived a few blocks from the bar we were at.

It's also not my fault that every guy I talk to, let alone look at, becomes my next lover according to the gossip magazines.

So I stand at the back of the line, waiting as one by one people get let in. I read over a few emails on my phone as I inch closer, and fifteen minutes later I'm inside, reacquainting myself with the flashing lights and the stages of dancers. This time all three are occupied, each doing their own routines as guys sit in front of them, throwing money onto the stage or tucking bills in the bands of their lingerie.

I make my way straight to the bar, smiling when Bridget notices me right away. I guess it helps that I'm wearing the same mask that I wore last Friday night.

"Well look who the devil dragged in." She smiles as she ignores a guy near the end of the bar and moves to me, already grabbing a glass and mixing a drink for me without me having to ask. "No red this time Scarlett?" she asks with a slight tilt of her head; even though the playfulness in her voice and the way her lips still curl prove that she's purely teasing.

We both know I look good. It doesn't really matter what color I have on.

"Thought I'd switch it up a little. I'm feeling a little dark tonight." I play back, grabbing the glass and taking a sip of the pink liquid she sets on the bar in front of me. I promise myself not to drink as much tonight. Especially because I don't have Sam this time.

She nods and moves to the right to take someone else's order. I sit down and wait, happy and content for the first time all week.

That really should be a sign, but I ignore it. Telling myself I just had an off week and that that's quite acceptable in my line of work.

I twist on the bar stool to peer around the club, squinting at the masked people littering the space. There's a party of guys in a giant booth, and it's quite clear that it's a bachelor party by their drunken shouts and the way one lady pays special attention to them.

I try not to let myself be disappointed when I don't find crystal blue and sunny blonde. Maybe she wasn't working tonight, and I try and not let my disappointment grow at that thought.

My night should not be ruined because a girl I met once and barely talked to isn't here.

It shouldn't, but I can't ignore the fact that seeing her was the main reason I was excited about going out in the first place.

"Hey sweet cheeks." Bridget smiles as she comes back in front of me. She must see something different on my face, and I quickly try and wipe away whatever look it is before she can comment on it. "How's it going?"

I return her smile and sip at my drink. "Same old shit, different Friday night," I joke, easily slipping back into the flirting banter we had last week. It's nice and familiar, and I find it strange how bad I need it.

I don't let myself think about why.

"Such a positive attitude for such a beautiful girl," Bridget bites back with sarcasm, her lips curling over her perfectly white teeth as her eyes roll. "Tell me," she begins as she lets the glass in her hands rest on the bar while she leans over it. "How does someone who could literally do anything they want, have anyone they want, become so jaded?"

It's playful and sarcastic in every syllable, but it's so painfully truthful that her words almost push me off the stool. Was I jaded? Is that how I acted? It made sense really. When I wasn't in the studio or some other press related event, I wanted to be home. I wanted to be wrapped in a good book and a knit blanket, or watching Boy Meets World reruns with Quinn.

So why was I here?

Sam wasn't by my side forcing me to have fun and socialize. No paparazzi were outside waiting in a planned night out to get my face in the media. I wasn't on the guest list to help promote the place.

So why was I here?

Before I can answer myself, or Bridget, a flash of gold catches my eye through the reflection of the mirror that overlooks the bar. I turn in my seat, my eyes scanning the floor of the club, and I feel my body sigh in relief when my eyes fall on milky skin and sun-kissed hair.

She's the reason I'm here.

And I have no clue what that means.

* * *

"Welcome back." Joe offers a coy smile as he greets me at the black curtain. I roll my eyes behind my mask and tell him I'd like the same as last week. "She's with another client right now, but you can wait for her in room five. She's almost done," he informs as I hand him the cash.

I'm not sure whether my stomach flips at the thought of her with another client or the fact that I'll be seeing her again in a few minutes.

But my legs are less shaky this time as I walk down the darkened hallway towards my assigned room. The layout's the same, and I smile at the way this room seems to be a little smaller.

Less space.

Less distance.

My smile disappears with a shake of my head.

Before I can even sit and make myself comfortable, the door is creaking open, her long legs skipping into the room with a bright, warm smile painted across her face. Maybe I imagine it, but I swear her eyes get brighter when she sees who's waiting for her.

"Hi." She beams, and it's so honest and heartfelt that I can't help the way my face literally breaks in half to smile back at her.

I feel happier and more content than I've felt all week. I don't know why exactly, since we barely know each other. Maybe because she has this presence about her that's calming. Or the fact that the way she smiles with her eyes is so infectious.

I don't know.

I choose to ignore the way my nerves pick up as she walks closer, and instead focus on the outfit she's wearing tonight. She's wearing heels again, but they have more straps than the ones she wore last week. There's a small black skirt that covers the tops of her thighs this time, and a red and black corset instead of a leather jacket.

All I can think about is the way her breasts looked last time, and how crazy it is that I even know what they look like. I shouldn't really. I shouldn't know what any of her skin looks like that she wouldn't show to the general public.

My eyes shift up to meet hers and she's smiling at me, her cheeks freckled and slightly blushed, her lips parting in a little giggle.

"Hi," I finally breathe, hoping my voice isn't too shaky. She seems to appreciate the fact that she doesn't necessarily have to be as professional with me, because she plops down on the stage in front of where I'm sitting, her legs crossing as she braces herself against the wood with her hands as she leans back. She's calm and almost stretching, like a cat in a patch of sunlight, and it makes her so much more beautiful, if that were even possible.

"I'm glad you came back." Her eyes drop ever so slightly to the rest of my body, and I shift a little under her gaze. When her eyes snap back to mine, she's smiling even wider, and I know she means every word she says.

"Me too," I find myself admitting, and I can feel my cheeks pink at the truth of it. It's hard not being honest with her, and that's something I'm definitely not used to. She makes me want to tell her things I've never told anyone. She has this way of looking at me like she's interested in anything and everything I'd have to say, and I have to pinch my lips together to keep from spilling more than would be appropriate in this type of setting.

I'm about to tell her that, to tell her I just want to talk to her and ask her questions about herself when she stands and hops over to the other wall. It isn't until the music sweeps through the room that I realize what she's doing.

She's doing what I paid her to do.

And suddenly I wish I hadn't.

I wish I could just talk to her because that's what I want to do more than anything.

But then she's in front of me again, and she almost scares me with how quietly and easily she moves around a room. Her hips are already moving, like they can't help it. Like she moves to the beat without even realizing she's doing it. She stays in front of me, apparently foregoing the pole this time, and begins to trail her hands up her sides until they're tangled in her hair.

It shouldn't be arousing, but it is.

It shouldn't make me want to touch her, but it does.

It shouldn't be exciting, but it is.

She scratches down her neck, with her head thrown back in faux pleasure, and the sight of her like this steals a breath from the back of my throat. She's intoxicatingly beautiful and sinfully erotic. It's the most bizarre combination and I want nothing more than to keep watching her. To keep staring as she twists her body in positions that shouldn't be shown to a complete stranger.

I shouldn't know what her face looks like like this. Faux pleasure or not, I still shouldn't know.

But there's an innocence to her that never goes away, no matter the way her body bends and flexes, or the darker her eyes get with fake lust. It's like a ray of sun peeking through storm clouds, and I'm not sure whether I'd rather wait and see the sun, or currently enjoy the rain.

She shimmies, the tails of her skirt blowing up around her hips, my eyes catching a glimpse of sleek black lace. She moves closer, until her legs are barely brushing up against my knees and it's the most comforting and strange feeling. My mind battles with wanting to touch more of her and wanting to tell her to stop.

But I'm determined to let her finish this time; if only to prove to her and myself that I can let her finish. It shouldn't be a big deal, and yet my nails are digging into my thighs. To keep from shaking or reaching out and touching her, I'm not sure.

Her fingers are looping beneath the waistband of her skirt, and in seconds it's pooling at her feet on the floor. She steps out of it, the most seductive yet innocent smirk on her face as she does so.

She's beautiful, and she knows it.

I wish I could be as confident as she is about my own body, but she's in a different league. She knows how to move her body in just the right manner to get certain reactions. She knows which twist or which bend will give an audience the perfect view of her breasts, and which will leave them wanting more. She knows how to make sure every eye is on her, wanting her, desiring her, and it's something I'm in complete awe of and a little jealous of.

She bends and leans forward, her hands resting on the cushions beside my hips. Her eyes are bright and dark at the same time, and they're drawing me in deeper and deeper like the pull of the ocean's tide. I want to fight the current, to swim away and never know what it's like at the bottom. But I know that wish is useless because I already want to know everything about her. Including the way she's somehow slipped into my mind so quickly and without notice.

"Are you okay?" She asks with a caring smile, the look in her eyes both interested and completely serious.

I nod, not sure what else to do. I know I want to touch her, and I know I can't. I know I want to tell her things, and I know I shouldn't. I know I want to ask her questions, and I know I'm not supposed to. So I nod again, hoping I look a lot better and more convincing than I did last week.

She grins at me and there's something behind her smile that I can't name. I'm not even sure if she's aware of it, except she has to be because she's more aware of her body than anyone I've ever met before.

She spins until her back is facing me. She arches it and I watch as the blades of her shoulders ripple with the movement, moving under her skin as she backs up until she's hovering above my lap. Her hair cascades over her corset, and I watch the ribbons of it strain against her back with each calculated movement she makes. My eyes travel down her arms as the muscles in them flex with the weight she supports. There's a freckle above her right elbow that's begging to be touched, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from giving in to the desire. Her hips are moving in petite circles over my thighs, and my eyes drop to her butt and the way round cheeks slip from beneath the fabric that's supposed to be holding them in.

It isn't until my eyes travel back up her shoulders that I realize she's humming along with the music, and my heart does a weird jolt at it. She's humming along to a song like a teenager in the back of their parents' car, while performing a lap dance for a stranger, and the mixture of those two acts is so odd that I can't help but smile at her.

She's perfect in ways I'll never understand, and in ways I'll never be able to achieve.

She tilts her head until she can look over her shoulder at me and smirks, her top lip disappearing in the process. "I love this song," she states like we're having a normal conversation, and I'm not sure what my insides are doing, but I feel dizzy. All I can do is smile back at her and pray that it doesn't look as dopey as it feels spread across my face.

She sings along some more, until the song fades into a new one, and her hips slow just a little. She looks back at me again, shifting until one of her hands is braced on her knee. "Will you help with the bows?" She asks with a soft innocence and a warm confidence that has my hands buzzing with the offer to touch her.

But then I remember the rules, and I look back at her in confusion.

"It's okay," she assures me, wiggling her back as if to make sure I knew she really did want me to touch her.

I swallow hard, my throat dry and scratchy as I lift my hands from where they had been digging into my thighs. They're shaking, and I mentally slap myself because I'm being beyond ridiculous. This woman, whom I barely know, should not be making me this nervous.

But she's asking me to help her undress, and it's that simple idea that has my mind and stomach fluttering in ways that have never happened when past boyfriends have asked the same request.

Her back curves as her head drops in front of her, her hair falling loosely down her back. I glide it over her shoulders and out of my way, and it's so soft and silky that I wish I could run my fingers through it.

I shake my head and remind myself yet again to stop being so ridiculous.

She probably asks every client to help her when she's wearing this corset. It would be nearly impossible for her to get in and out of by herself.

My fingers are still shaking when I touch the bow at the top of her back, pulling the ribbon between my hands until it loosens and falls apart. I repeat the process down her spine, watching as the vertebrae in her back poke through the opening to be counted and adored with each untied bow.

When I reach the last one, the corset falls open, and she's smiling over her shoulder at me again before lifting from where she was practically sitting in my lap. She spins and removes the material in the process, and my eyes fall to where they really shouldn't fall. My tongue darts out to wet my lips before I can stop myself, and she's giggling at me with pink cheeks and dark blue eyes.

She moves until her knees dip into the cushions again, bracketing my hips as she lowers herself until there's a sliver of space between our legs. Her hands fall to the back of the couch above my shoulders, and this time as she moves, it's slower and more precise. Her eyes never waver from mine, even when I can't help but look at her breasts that are practically bouncing in my face.

"Place your hands on my hips," she instructs, and my eyes snap back to hers, completely caught off guard and unsure. Half of me is lit with the excitement of touching her, and half of me thinks it's a very bad idea. Friends shouldn't touch the way she's insisting.

I wasn't even sure we were friends. But I wanted to be.

When I don't move my hands, she smiles at me and shifts until most of her weight is on one of her knees. She reaches forward, her fingers wrapping around my wrist and tugging until my palm is against her hip, her hand pressing firmly on mine, like she is making sure I knew that it was okay to keep it there. My eyes watch hers as she does the same with my other hand, and I sink further into the couch at the feel of her skin beneath my hands.

She giggles, at what I'm not sure. I smile at her, hoping to wipe away any nerves that might have been written all over my face.

She must feel satisfied in our new position, because she moves again until her hands tangle in her hair and her hips are moving above mine. She looks at me as she moves, and I want to look away. Her gaze coupled with the roll of her hips is a little overwhelming.

I want to know what she's thinking. I want to know if she's nervous at all, or if she thinks that this is a little overwhelming as well. Or if she's used to this. Does she do this stuff with a lot of people? I doubt I'm the first girl who's requested a dance from her? Does she like dancing for guys or girls more?

And there are so many questions about her that have nothing to do with what she's currently doing in front of me. And I know I'll never be able to ask them.

With a twirl of her hips downward, the back of her thighs brush against the tops of mine and I gasp before I can stop myself. My fingers dig into her skin and I can feel the jut of her hipbones. Her movements still for a moment, and it's not until she looks down at my hands on her hips that I realize how hard I'm gripping onto her.

"Sorry," I mumble. My grip on her loosens and I want to pull away completely, but she's moving again and the look in her eyes is like a warning not to move my hands. She smirks at me, her head dipping before she throws it back up, sending her hair flying over her shoulder.

The movement reminds me how soft her hair looks, and how badly I want to touch it. Knowing I can't, I grip onto her hips a little tighter, earning myself another smile from her. I realize that I would do whatever she asked me to do as long as she kept smiling at me.

She shimmies her upper body, and my eyes drop to her chest, her breasts moving in sync with the roll of her hips. They're smaller than mine, and her nipples are a lot pinker. I smile at the fact that I'm currently comparing my boobs to a girl I've met twice, who's currently dancing on top of me half-naked. There's a freckle on the underside of one of them, and it's tempting in a way I'm not sure I want to decode. My eyes fall lower to her stomach, loving the way freckles dust her skin around her bellybutton.

My thumb moves of its own accord, grazing over a little freckle that sits low on her hip. I can see the muscles in her stomach tense at my touch, and I instantly feel like I've done something wrong. Like I've taken something away from her that I shouldn't have. She said I could put my hands on her hips, but she never said I could touch other parts of her.

But her eyes are light and smiling, and I blush at my inability not to touch her. Her hands fall to the cushions by my head, and she's leaning over me now, her breasts now directly in front of my face.

I must gasp or tense or something, because she pushes back a little until her eyes lock with mine. She's smirking and I know she knows exactly what she's doing. The corner of her lip lifts as if she's daring me to say something, and I want to. But I'm not exactly sure what will come out if I try and speak.

So I squeeze at her hips instead, and watch as her face flashes with something. She tilts her head at me and I cock one of my eyebrows in turn, and I'm completely aware that we're silently flirting. The teasing of her body and the way I respond. It's a game almost, and I'm finally able to relax at that realization.

She's enjoying this as much as I am.

I know my time is almost over, and it's not enough. I want more. I want more of her.

"What time do you get off?" I blurt, watching as her face freezes before her eyes and lips are smiling down at me, lighter and brighter than they have been all evening.

"Two," she answers with a circle of her hips, her thighs skimming over mine again.

I'm about to ask her if she wants to get coffee or something after her shift, but I realize that she doesn't even know who I am. And it's not like I can wear this mask to a diner.

Now I don't know what to say. I was completely caught up in our little game and wanting to know more about her, that I forgot I was hiding something from her. Not that I could really hide something from her considering we've never had a real conversation before.

But in order to do that I'd have to tell her my real name.

"Scarlett?" she questions, and I realize that I've completely zoned out on her.

"Sorry." I shake my head just as the song fades. She smiles at me, smaller, like I've said either the most ridiculous thing or the cutest.

I'm not really sure which I'd prefer.

She slides off my lap, grabbing her corset off the floor before she walks to the back of the room, turning the stereo system off.

I look down at where she had been nearly sitting on top of me and realize that my dress has bunched high on my thighs. I shift, tugging at the hem of it to pull it back down.

"Can you help me with this again?"

I turn at the sound of her voice - so small and quiet, almost as if she's shy - and see her standing behind the couch, the corset wrapped around her front, and the back undone facing me.

"Yeah," I breathe, noticing that our game from earlier has faded. And now I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do or not do. But she's still standing there, her back to me, open and bare, and she's asking for my help. And it seems friendlier than the teasing she had been doing the whole time we've been together.

I make my way around the couch and take the bottom ribbon between my hands, tying it into a bow.

"Why did you want to know when my shift was done?" she asks over her shoulder as I continue with the bows up her spine.

I fumble with the ribbon, not sure what I should say. I don't really want to lie, but I'm not sure if I should tell her who I am. What if she tells the media that I came here? That I bought not one, but two lap dances? That both of those dances were from a girl?

But for some reason I know she won't do that. For some reason I know I can trust her. And I know I want to trust her.

I want us to be friends.

I don't answer her as I finish up her corset, tying the last bow in place against her shoulder blades. She fixes the front of it before turning around to face me, and I know by the way she's looking at me that I'm not going to lie to her.

"Can I tell you something?" I ask, a little hesitant.

"Absolutely." She smiles and nods her head, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

I open my mouth and close it, my head dropping to look at the floor as I shift back and forth on my feet. I don't know how to tell her. Do I say that I want to get to know her and ask if she wants to join me for coffee and then tell her my name? Or do I just tell her my name first and see what she says?

I think she can tell I'm having a hard time, because her hand reaches out to mine and squeeze it gently. I look back up at her, and she's smiling, that same smile that's full of light and a brightness I've never seen on someone's face before.

"Would you like to join me when I'm done? I go to this diner down the street that's open till four. They have the best pancakes and eggs." She grins, her hand squeezing mine once more before she drops it.

I nod with a smile, my cheeks growing warm under her gaze. I'm relieved she asked exactly what I wanted to ask her, but now I still have to tell her.

I'm about to when she leans forward, a little squeal escaping her lips as she grips my shoulders. "Great. Meet me in the parking lot a little after two." She's grinning as she skips away from me and out the door before I even have a chance to say anything else.

* * *

It's a little after midnight when I make it back out to the main part of the club. I see Bridget smiling at me from across the floor and shake my head at her before walking towards her. She has a glass waiting for me when I sit down, and gives me a pointed look when I take the smallest sip she's probably ever seen me take.

"What?" I raise an eyebrow at her, the corners of my mouth lifted in jest.

"Nothing." She shakes her head, but the smile on her face is enough to tell me she knows exactly what's going on.

I think about that, wondering if Lily goes out with a lot of her clients, and I can feel my face fall at the thought. Bridget must see it on my face cause she quickly clicks her tongue at me to get my attention again.

"You must be something special." Bridget's mouth stays open like she's going to say something more, but closes it after a moment and leaves it at that.

I don't know whether to feel confused or honored, or down right unsure.

The only thing I do know is that I want two o'clock to come a lot faster than the clock behind the bar is indicating.

* * *

The air is a little cooler now that the sun's been set for a few hours. I drag my heel through the gravel in the front of the parking lot, watching as the last of the parked cars pulls away. Joe exits out a back door and gives me a gruff smile before walking towards his own car.

Ten minutes later and no sight of Lily, I get a little nervous. Maybe she's changed her mind. Or went to find me to tell me she was running late, but saw that I had left the club and thought that I had changed my mind.

I get the slight desire for a long drag of a cigarette, but I lost a bet to Sam a few weeks ago, my punishment being I can't smoke until after the record is finished. Whatever, it's a stupid deal because he knows better than anyone that my voice is a lot sexier after a good cigarette.

Hell I'd even take a nice cigar right now.

I'm about to start walking to the main street to hail a cab when a door slams behind me.

"Sorry. I wanted to shower."

I turn around as she's walking towards me, her hair darkened from the water where it sits in a bun on the top of her head. Bright green sweats hug her hips low, a black t-shirt covering her top. She looks so relaxed, like she just rolled out of bed and hopped in the shower before meeting her friends for breakfast.

Which I guess, technically, is what she's doing. Except instead of sleeping she was stripping.

Her smile spreads when she steps in front of me, and it's then I realize I'm just staring at her. I don't know why I lose every ounce of confidence I have around her, and I'm starting to hate it.

But not enough to not want to be around her.

Whatever, I'll deal with my mixed up mind at a later date. Right now I need to find some semblance of courage to remove my mask.

"Lily, there's something I need to – " I begin, but she cuts me off, grabbing my hand as it sways at my side.

"Brittany," she smiles with her eyes. And I can't help but smile in return. "My name's Brittany."

Her honesty and trust is a breath of fresh air after working in this industry, and I know more than anything that I want to be completely honest with her too.

"Brittany." I repeat, nodding my head as she squeezes my hand before drawing hers back to her side. "Well Brittany I have something I need to tell you." I start again, watching as her eyes flick back and forth between mine. She's patient and kind, and she's pretty much the complete opposite of me. "My name is Santana." I breathe, ripping the band-aid off. Knowing if I had more time to contemplate things I'd probably change my mind.

"Santana," she smiles, and I already love the way it sounds rolling off her tongue. "Like the singer." She grins, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. "It's such a pretty name."

I sigh, a mixture of happy bashfulness for her thinking my name is pretty, and nervous uncertainty for how she's going to react when I'm in fact the singer.

"No," I shake my head. My eyes drop to the ground for a second, and I'm glad for the minimal light in the parking lot so she can't really see the way my nervous fingers twitch at the hem of my dress. "Not like the singer." I look back up at her and she's looking at me with such concern and confusion that my hands have no choice but to reach up and slowly pull the mask from my face. "I am the singer."

I watch as she seems to study my face for a moment. Then she smiles and reaches forward, her fingers wrapping around one of my wrists. "Well that's even better. It's like finding out I'm having breakfast with Jesus instead of the Pope."

I stare at her a little unsure, but then she grins and winks and I know she's joking. Her sense of humor is like nothing I've encountered before, and it just makes me like her more.

"So you're not like, weirded out or anything?" I ask, because I'm not sure how I would react if the roles were reversed.

"Why would I be?" She questions back with a cock of her head. "You're just a person like me. Except you a have a lovely voice and people seem to treat you like a zoo animal sometimes."

I blush under her compliment, and think about how she's sort of treated like a zoo animal too, but in a completely different way. She must see my uneasiness because she's quick to change the subject. I'm not sure if she does it to make me more comfortable, like she already knows these things about me, or if she generally doesn't treat famous people with any real sign of difference.

"Come on. And prepare to eat the most orgasmic pancakes you'll ever eat." She tugs on my hand and leads me toward the front of the club and onto the main street.

"Wait, where's your car?" I wonder when I realize she's walking away from the rest of the employees' cars.

"I took a cab today. My car's in the shop." She lets go of my hand when we reach the sidewalk and looks over to me. "Are you okay with walking? It's not that far." Her eyes drag over me and then fall to my heels. "I have a pair of flip flops in my bag." She begins as she opens the overgrown purse at her hip and starts looking through it.

"No it's fine. I'm okay."

She seems to study me for a minute longer to make sure, but then smiles and takes the lead. I look around once we're on the main road, wondering if it's such a good idea for us to be walking this late at night. But she assures me with a gentle squeeze to my wrist, saying how the only people out this late are either homeless people who won't care who I am, or drunk people who won't remember seeing me in the first place.

I briefly wonder how many times she's walked alone at this hour, and try not to feel sad about it.

It's chilly for late March, and as a little breeze whips through my hair, goose bumps raise over my bare arms and shoulders. I try to rub them away, but it doesn't really help.

"Here," she offers, a light yellow sweater draping over her hand. I look back at her and realize she's only in a t-shirt, wondering why she's giving me her sweater when she should be wearing it. She seems to notice my unasked question. "I don't get cold easily." She shrugs her shoulders, pushing the sweater closer to me.

I take it and pull it over my arms until it's situated over my shoulders. "Thanks. I hate the cold." I mumble, maybe a little grumpier than I intend. But I really do hate the cold. There's a reason why I haven't left Southern California.

"Really?" Her voice rises in excitement, like I'm some damn animal she just discovered existed. It's really not that fascinating to not like cold weather. In fact it should be the norm. But she's looking at me like I've just said the craziest thing I could possibly say. "Cold weather is my favorite. It's snuggle weather. And you can wear funky sweaters and have fires indoors," she rants, and I almost want to believe her.

But then I remember that winter break in high school I spent with Quinn and her family in Colorado and remind myself why cold shouldn't exist. "No thanks. I'd rather have the sun and the beach and outdoor bonfires. Plus, you can still cuddle in air conditioning."

She's giggling and looking at me like I've said the craziest thing again, and I wonder what the hell she's hearing because I'm pretty sure I'm not that interesting.

"You're funny," she laughs out before looking forward.

And I'm definitely not funny. Or at least no one's told me I was before. She really must be only hearing like every other word I say or something.

A little part of me believes her though.

Maybe.

"Here we are." She gestures to her right, and I look up at the sign that reads 'Dukes West Hollywood'. I've heard of it, but have never been. It's a little exciting to be trying something new, especially a place that Brittany seems to like so much.

I nod and smile as she holds the door for me. There are a few other people there, not many, and I'm glad I don't really have to worry about that. The few who looked up when we walked in go back to their own meals, and Brittany takes me to a table near the back.

A woman with short, black hair struts to our table, and she looks exhausted. She tries to force a smile though, and I know I would hate my job if I had to serve people till four in the morning. "Can I get you ladies something to drink?"

"Orange juice please." Brittany rattles off before turning back to the menu.

I flip to the drinks and know I want something hot more than anything, even though I probably shouldn't have caffeine this late. "Do you guys have decaf?" The waitress nods. "I'll take a decaf coffee and a glass of water." I smile as she jots it down and walks off.

Brittany closes her menu before I even begin to look at it. "I know what I want." She looks at me, and her eyes are so soft and curious that I forget that I need to be looking for what I want to eat.

"Um," I stutter a little, glancing back down at the breakfast menu. My eyes roam over the specials and the eggs before turning over to the pancakes. "I have no idea," I chuckle softly. "What do you recommend?" I look up at her and notice she's watching me very carefully. I sort of wonder if I have food on my face or something, but I know that's impossible because we haven't even ordered yet.

Her eyes narrow as she smiles. "My favorite is the Durango Scramble."

I look down at it in the menu and read off what's in it. It's scrambled eggs with hamburger meat, sautéed mushrooms, onions, spinach, cheese, and chili spices. It sounds disgusting and is way too much food for two thirty in the morning.

"I get that with two banana pancakes," she adds, and my head snaps up at her.

"Where in the hell do you put it all?" My eyes definitely do not drop to look at her body. And she definitely doesn't notice or anything.

"Well my job sort of requires me to have a lot of energy," she states so seriously, but there's a twinkle in her eyes that tells me she's sort of joking, even if what she's saying is true.

"Yeah well, my job sort of requires a much different diet." I reply, quickly ashamed at what I had just said. It's not like I have a problem eating or anything, but she doesn't know that. And I know I just made it sound like I'm freaking starving myself or something, which is ridiculous considering the amount of love I have for In-n-Out. "I mean it's like time for bed. There's no way I could go to sleep after eating all that." I include to try and add some levity to my earlier statement.

The waitress comes back with our drinks before Brittany can say anything, and asks if we're ready to order. Brittany rambles off her usual, and then the woman turns to me, pen in hand. "I'll have the oatmeal with apples on top." I order and close my menu, glancing over at Brittany. Her eyebrows raise like she's silently asking 'that's it?' and I smile and nod as the waitress leaves.

She sinks back into her seat and I find it a lot easier to talk to her now. My confidence is no longer shit, and I'm really gonna have to spend some time reevaluating why I was so nervous with her back at the club.

But not right now.

"So you moved here after college?" I inquire before taking a sip from the mug of coffee in front of me.

Her eyebrow raises and she cocks her head, and I'm about to question why she's looking at me like that until I realize what I've said.

She's never told me that she went to college or moved here for that matter. As far as she's concerned, I should know next to nothing about her. But it's obvious now that I looked up her profile on the club's website.

But instead of being embarrassed or shy about it like I probably would have if we were having this conversation in the club with her half naked, I square my shoulders and smirk back. "I mean I had to know a little about the person I was getting lap dances from. You have no idea the levels of crazy I've witnessed." I shrug like it's no big deal and take another sip of my coffee.

"I'm sure," she smiles and nods her head in a way that tells me she's not buying it for a second. "But yeah, I went to school for two years, and decided to move out here instead and become a professional dancer. But unfortunately, what they don't tell you is that it's actually really hard to make a living off being a professional dancer."

I nod because I definitely understand. I've been trying to make it as a singer since I was sixteen. Movies and television shows make L.A. and Hollywood seem like a magical place where dreams come true. But they never show the hard work and all the "no's" that come with breaking into the entertainment industry.

"I don't know much about the dancing world, but I've had people telling me no for years. So I understand."

"I don't know who would tell you no. They're fucking crazy." She grins and sips at her orange juice.

Her sincerity and lack of filter catch me off guard, and I have trouble coming up with a playful response. Instead I shift the conversation back to her. "Where are you from?"

"Pennsylvania. Near Hershey." She answers simply, fiddling with her empty straw paper.

"As in Hershey's chocolate?" I'm not really sure why the idea makes me so excited. I'm not sure about a lot of things when I'm around her.

"Yup," she nods with a smile. "The sweetest place on Earth," she sings, and it's obvious it's part of some slogan or gimmick she's probably heard all her life.

"So is everyone from there as sweet then?" The waitress comes back with our food, and I look over the heaping pile placed in front of Brittany and laugh. There is no way in hell she's going to be able to eat all of that.

"Hell no. But there's good people everywhere if you take the time to look." She cuts off a piece of her pancakes and scoops it into her mouth. She doesn't comment on how I just called her sweet, nor does she explain more about her hometown. I find it interesting that someone who apparently can't find work in what she really wants to do, and has to put up with the people she does all night, can still say there are good people.

I wonder if I fall under that category.

"Where'd you go to school?" I ask as I take a bite of my oatmeal, and can't contain the slight moan of approval at the taste of it.

She giggles at me and nods like she knows and understands. I will definitely be remembering the name of this place.

"LVC," she states, and must see that I don't recognize the school because she smiles like she gets that a lot. "Lebanon Valley College. My boyfriend from high school got a scholarship to play football there. So I followed him." She digs her fork into her scramble and shovels some of that into her mouth next.

"What made you leave?" I wonder if I'm asking too many questions or if I'm being too personal for only meeting her a week ago, but she seems so willing to answer them it's hard not to keep asking about her life. It's funny, because I know if she'd ask about mine, I would have a much harder time being open. It's one of the things that I like about her though, her willingness to befriend and trust people so openly.

She shrugs her shoulders at that, washing down a bite of her pancakes with some orange juice. "I just didn't like it there anymore," she admits and I don't ask for clarification.

"But you like it out here?" I don't know why, but it seems like something important to ask. As if her not liking it out here should really matter to me at all.

"Definitely." She nods frantically, the bun on top of her head bobbing like floppy rabbit ears. It's cute and silly, and it doesn't really take a genius to realize that's exactly what Brittany is.

I smile and eat more of my oatmeal. She swallows the food that's in her mouth before asking, "What about you? Have you lived here all your life?"

"Yup. SoCal born and raised." I smile like it's an accomplishment. Which it definitely should be as far as I'm concerned.

"Did you go to school?" She asks around a forkful of eggs and hamburger meat.

I shake my head. "No. I knew I wanted to sing in high school. I didn't need college telling me what I wanted to do with my life."

"That's not all college is for silly." She giggles, and the way she calls me on my bullshit already is – well it's new.

"Well Miss Smartass, what is college for then?" It should be weird how easy it is to talk to someone so new. It should be full of awkward questions or unsure silences, but it isn't. She's probably the easiest person I've ever met to talk to.

She seems to think about it for a moment as she chews on a piece of banana that tops her syrupy pancakes. "Well college is for socializing. Parties and football games and stuff like that. But it's also for all-nighters in libraries and learning about derivatives and the first civilization and stuff."

I watch and listen to her carefully, realizing how much I like when she rambles about stuff she likes. She doesn't make sure what she's saying is organized or practiced. She just lists off all the reasons just liked I asked her to.

"I think I made the right decision," I smirk back, and she laughs at me again.

She opens her mouth to reply, but her phone rings on the table next to her plate. She apologizes, which is equal parts ridiculous and cute, and answers it. I try not to listen in and focus on my quickly disappearing bowl of oatmeal. She finishes talking and places her phone back on the table. "Sorry. My roommate likes to make sure I'm okay when I don't come home right away after my shift." She goes back to eating, and my eyes bulge a little in disbelief when I realize her pancakes are gone and she's halfway through her scramble.

"It's fine." I say because it's true. I could sit and listen to her talk all night. I probably wouldn't mind just sitting in her company period, even if she were talking on the phone the entire time.

But I'm glad she isn't because I want to hear more.

She spends the rest of her time eating telling me about how her Introduction to Film professor made them watch this film from the 80s, where a guy grows a vagina in his chest and how the film only made sense when she watched it again while she was high.

I don't know whether to laugh or just stare at her with a mixture of uncertainty and slight disgust. But when she finishes the last of her food, I mostly just look at her like she's crazy because I definitely would have lost money if I had bet about her finishing it all.

When we both pay for our respective meals, I really don't want to leave. But she must be tired by now, and it is late. And Sam will definitely kill me if I don't make it to our Saturday morning run tomorrow.

"You're really fun," she smiles as we're walking out of the diner. She's hailing a cab before I can say the same. I want to ask for her number or ask her when we can hang out again, but she's offering the first taxi that comes to me with a sweet smile painted across her face. "And I won't tell anyone about this or anything. I know you must have to worry about that kind of stuff."

My face falls because she's so right, but I want her to know that I'm definitely not ashamed of her or her job at all. But the only thing that comes out is a "thank you" and she's closing the cab door after me without another word.

The drive home is too short yet too long. And when I manage to change and remove my make-up before settling into bed, all I can think about is how much I want to spend more time with her. How much I think Brittany would be the greatest friend, even if I'd never admit that to Sam or Quinn. And how much I want to help her dance without having grown ass men pawing at her.

Right before I fall asleep, I know exactly what I need to do in order to achieve all of that. And I'm not sure I'll be able to wait a whole week before telling Brittany my idea.


	4. Chapter Three

A/N: Thank you! I love reading what you all have to say on here and on my tumblr. Special thanks to Chrissy and Bekah.

* * *

**Chapter Three – These Thoughts and the Strain I Am Under**

_Los Angeles, April 2013._

* * *

"Sam says you've been distracted in the studio," Quinn informs me like it's news to me as she plops down on my sofa next to me. She has a bag of caramel rice cakes and a jar of peanut butter, and it really should be illegal how good that combination is.

"If you have a point Q, I suggest getting to it," I grumble because it's Friday, and it's been a week since Brittany and I talked at that diner. Sam somehow made sure I was busy all week, and now all of a sudden Quinn is plastered to my couch at ten-thirty in the morning when she usually has work.

I don't need a freaking babysitter just because the two of them talk behind my back.

"Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?" she sort of barks back. It's a lot less harsh then some of her other comebacks, so she's really just avoiding asking the questions she really wants to ask.

"Q," I warn a little as I flip through my saved DVR for something to watch. "Seriously, stop with the bullshit."

"Are you dating someone?" she asks and I almost choke on a bite of a peanut buttered rice cake.

"What?" It's the last thing I expected her to say, and I'm not sure how she came to that conclusion considering I told Sam I stayed in last weekend, and I've been in the studio almost every day.

"Well Sam said – "

"Okay first off, you and Sam need to stop talking about me like you're my fucking parents. I already have two of those and I'm not looking for anymore. Secondly, I'm allowed a little privacy," I begin and see that she's about to interrupt me. "I'm not saying I'm freaking seeing anyone, Jesus, Slim Shady, calm the fuck down. I'm just saying that if I was, I'm allowed to keep it from you guys."

"But I'm your best friend," she practically pouts, and I've never hated her hazel eyes more than I do right now. It should be a sin that she doesn't use them to her advantage with guys more often.

"Yes Q, you're my best friend. Do you want a fucking medal?" I roll my eyes and turn back to the television. She really is a bitch sometimes. Which is probably why we've been so close for years.

She seems to either think that there's nothing for me to tell, or that I'm obviously not going to tell her anything, and turns her attention back to the episode I've started.

"I hate you sometimes," she sort of gripes, but her voice is too soft to be anything but playful.

"I love you too." I smirk back, and with a roll of her eyes I know she's not really upset.

Halfway through the episode, Quinn moves until she's settled into my side, her head resting on my shoulder. It's a little hard to be mad at her anymore, because I know she's only asking because she cares. People know she's my friend, and she has to put up with bullshit because of it. It's not fair, and she didn't ask for it, and I kind of love her for the way she handles it.

"You know I'd tell you if there was something to tell, don't you?" I say, even though I probably don't have to. We've been telling each other secrets for years, but it seems like she could use a little reminder, for whatever reason.

She nods but doesn't say anything, and now I know she's the one actually hiding something. But pushing Quinn to talk is a hundred times worse than pushing me, and I'd rather not end the morning with her slamming my front door as she storms out.

I comb through her hair, chuckling at the way she nudges against me like a damn dog. I picture another head of blonde hair, and my stomach coils at the thought of running my hands through it. It unnerves me, that something I've been doing with Quinn for years somehow means something entirely different with Brittany, and I don't know why. Or what it means.

By the time the episode's over, there's a set of blue eyes and an infectious giggle ringing through my mind and I'm itching to talk to Brittany tonight. I want to tell her my idea and tell her about my week, and hear about hers.

But there's no way in hell Quinn would want to go to a strip club. And I don't really want her to come anyways. I love her to death, but the girl needs a reality check in what fun looks like.

''I think I'm gonna stay in and work on some lyrics tonight. Have some me time," I lie because I can't really say I'm going to hang out with Sam the way the two of them talk all the time behind my back.

She doesn't question it, and I don't know if she can tell I'm lying, or just accepts the fact that maybe a Friday night to myself would be good for me.

* * *

Quinn leaves a few hours later, and I send a quick text to Sam telling him the same thing I told Quinn. He's quick to tell me he already has plans anyways, and reminds me that I have a photo shoot and interview with Seventeen magazine on Monday.

I pick out a pair of black skinny jeans and a white lace top instead of a dress for tonight, and hop in the shower. I don't really want to put on a mask again now that she knows who I am, but since the only way I have of seeing her is through the club, I don't really have a choice. Especially now that Sam and Quinn think I'm staying home. If pictures surface of me out at some club, they'll definitely think I'm hiding something.

And I'm not.

Am I?

No.

Maybe.

As I'm curling my hair, Quinn texts me a picture of some ridiculous couple practically dry humping at a Starbucks, with the caption _coffee must taste better when you're licking it off someone's tongue. _

It's always been this thing between us, to send pictures of people with captions. To try and explain why people are so fucking weird sometimes. _You almost made me burn myself._ I text back, kicking myself when I realize I shouldn't be curling my hair right now. To her, I should be curled up on my couch or in bed wrapped up in a blanket. _I dropped a cigarette laughing so hard. _I quickly type out on my phone and send it as an explanation before she can ask any questions.

_I thought you weren't supposed to be smoking anymore._

_Well then don't tell on me bitch :) _

I finish my hair and slip into a pair of wedges before grabbing the mask off my dresser and calling a cab. I think about just driving my own car, but I don't want to take the chance of someone recognizing it tonight. I'd have to put up with just too many questions from too many people.

It's late by the time the cab pulls up out front, and there's hardly a line by this time of night.

I don't go see Bridget when I walk in, and instead make my way straight over to Joe. He doesn't recognize me this time, and I mutter off the usual for Lily, almost saying her real name, and he punches it into the computer.

"Her shifts almost over," he states when something flashes on the screen.

I look at him, unsure of what exactly that means.

"You can either have a shorter session, or I can give you a different dancer," he explains and I shake my head at the latter choice.

"I'll take the shorter session."

He takes my money after a slightly odd look, and then tells me room one. I'm actually excited about the shorter session, because it means she doesn't have to give me a lap dance since there's not enough time, and we can focus on my offer for her.

I'm taking off my mask as she walks in, and her face instantly lights up, her lips curling and her eyes softening as she shuts the door behind her.

"Santana," she practically squeals in delight, and I can feel my face mimicking her happiness.

"Why are you surprised I came back?" I ask with a little laughter, because it's cute the way she gets so happy when she sees me, but she should know by now I like spending time with her.

At least I think it's obvious enough for her to know.

She shrugs her shoulders at my question and doesn't really answer it. Instead she sits down in front of me on the stage, crossing her legs underneath her. She exhales with an audible huff, and I can see the way her muscles relax.

"Long night?" I ask when it's obvious she's not going to explain her excitement.

She nods, blonde hair falling over the red bra she has on. My eyes drop as I look over her outfit tonight, a little surprised that she's only wearing a bra and matching panties with knee high black socks. She usually has more clothes on so she can take them off.

"Yes. I had a bachelor party come in tonight and they specifically requested me. It was good pay, but I had to entertain them for two hours. I'm exhausted," she explains, and can't help the way she yawns at the end of her sentence.

It's really cute.

It probably shouldn't be.

It's then that she must realize she's supposed to be dancing for me, and gets to her feet, starting to move towards the stereo.

"No, wait," I call a little louder than I mean to. She turns to face me, her eyebrow raised in question. "You don't have to dance."

She cocks her head to the side, like a dog trying to listen and understand something, and she really needs to stop being cute when she's wearing very little clothing. It's distracting in ways it really shouldn't be.

"I actually just came here to talk to you."

"Did you pay?" she asks, her eyes soft but a little unreadable. I nod. "Then I owe you a dance Santana," she states firmly and turns toward the stereo again.

"Brittany, you don't owe me anything." I sort of plead, choosing to disregard the way her words settle in my stomach like lead. It unnerves me that she thinks she has to dance for me, and it makes me wonder if she feels that way a lot. Does she often think that stripping for money is more of a burden than something she really wants to do?

It makes my idea for her flash bright in my mind.

She faces me again, her smile barely there as she walks back to me, sitting down where she was before.

Then she's looking at me like I have a speech planned, and well, that's a little nerve-wracking. I can tell she's either upset or offended, and I don't like it.

"I have a proposition for you," I begin, and watch as she shifts until her feet are folded beneath her Indian style. "I'm going on tour this summer, and I was wondering if you, maybe, wanted to be a back up dancer for me? I mean you're gifted and it would be nice to actually know one of my dancers ahead of time. The pay's good and it'll be great exposure for you as far as professional dancing goes." I'm sort of rambling at this point because I realize I never thought of her saying anything but yes. And yet the look on her face is anything but happy.

The softness of her features fades to sharp, harsh angles, and she's practically scowling at me now. "I don't need your pity Santana," she blurts, and I instantly snap my mouth closed.

This is not at all how I envisioned this conversation going.

She's staring at me with a look in her eyes I've never seen before, and the only thing I want is to make it go away. "No, Brittany. That's not what I meant." I shake my head, willing her to understand.

She gets to her feet, her arms crossing across her chest as if to protect herself. The idea that she needs to protect herself from me is absurd, and I hate that this is not going how I planned at all.

"You think that just because we've talked and you're like super famous and I dance for people with no clothes on, that I need like saving or something. I have Lifetime. I know how this works." Her face scrunches and her lips purse like the words she's saying actually taste bitter as they roll off her tongue.

And it's then I realize she thinks I'm ashamed of her. She thinks I disapprove of what she does. She thinks that I feel some sort of obligation to help her.

And she really couldn't be further from the truth.

"Brittany stop." I reach forward to place my palm on her shoulder. I just want her to stop before she thinks anything worse, but she flinches away from my touch. It hurts to know that she really does believe what she's saying. "I'm not ashamed of you or your job. And I don't pity you, okay?"

She looks at me with uncertainty, but the hardness around her eyes is softening as she watches me.

I don't really know how to voice what I mean though, but I know I need to say something before she gets upset again.

"I seriously just think you're really talented, and I had fun with you the other night. So I figured it would be nice to have a friend on tour. It's really a selfish thing actually, so you're giving me way too much credit if you think I'm asking this because I want to _save_ you." I'm smirking as I finish, watching as the corners of her lips twitch and the sparkle in her eyes returns just a little.

She shifts, her hold around herself loosening as she rolls her eyes and widens her smile. "Selfish, huh?"

I chuckle and allow myself to relax now that she's not upset anymore. "Very selfish," I smile, and there's something in the pit of my stomach that's making me feel different. Like a fluttering or a buzzing that won't go away every time she smiles. I want to flirt with her, to make her smile until that giggle of hers is the only thing she can do.

And I refuse to let myself think anything further than that. I refuse to try and understand why I react this way towards her. I just refuse.

Instead I'll focus on the fact that she might actually agree to this. That I'll have a friend on stage every night I perform, and someone to enjoy the road trip between cities. Because Quinn can only make a few shows because of work, and Sam has other clients to deal with and can't travel with me.

"I'd just rather not spend the whole summer by myself in strange cities." I shrug my shoulders and hope she fully understands what I mean. Even if I don't really understand what I mean entirely.

"Santana, I don't know," she mumbles. I can tell she's really unsure about it, and I don't want her to feel like she has to make a decision right now.

"Just think about it," I quickly add. She looks at me and smiles, nodding her head. "Good."

"Do you have plans tonight?" she asks. I shake my head, ignoring the way my stomach flips. Maybe I have an illness or a medical reason why my body is acting like this. "Are you allergic to cats?"

I blink at her and laugh, cause that's definitely not what I expected her to say. "No," I smile, watching as her nose scrunches and I can only smile more.

"Good." She moves closer, leaning towards me until I can feel her lips against my ear. "Meet me out back in like fifteen minutes." She's giggling as she turns and leaves the room, and I don't think I'll ever get used to the way she exits rooms mid conversations like that. It's utterly annoying and unbearably charming.

* * *

She skips out the back door with wet hair, skinny jeans and a baggy grey sweater, and again I bite down on my lip to suppress things I shouldn't have to suppress. I'm starting to think there is something seriously wrong with me and the fact that I can't act like a normal person around her.

It's ridiculous.

"Hi," she says like honey, her voice sweet and warm. She bounces over to me and loops her arm through mine as she leads me to her car.

"Where are we going?" I try and sound annoyed, but I'm sure she can hear the smile in my voice.

She doesn't answer me until we're both seated in her car, the radio blasting when she turns the keys. She quickly turns the volume down, looking a little shy as she does it, before facing me. "My roommate runs a cat adoption shelter, and they're out of town right now," she says as she puts the car in reverse and pulls out of her parking spot.

"So, we're going to steal some kitties?" I smile, and love the way she giggles in return.

"San-tan-a," she draws out in a whine through her laugh. It's impossibly cute and I have to turn away from her to make sure my face doesn't look like fucking Dopey or some shit. "I have to go make sure they have food and water, and that they haven't killed each other, silly." She swats at my thigh playfully and I can feel my cheeks heat.

I need to schedule that doctor's appointment stat.

I was right about loving the way she says my name. It's pure yet feisty, and she doesn't have the extra Spanish draw that my family adds to each syllable. It's beautiful, and I want to find more and more ways for her to keep saying it.

"I was just checking. I don't think cat-napping helps with record sales," I joke and my heart swells at the giggle I receive in return.

"You are too funny," she laughs as she turns at a light, and I stop trying to fight a smile. I can't stop smiling around her. She's just too infectious.

She turns on the radio after a while and starts singing along to a Katy Perry song, and I find myself just watching her. After she sings through the chorus, she turns her head and blushes, her lips curling mid-lyric as she starts laughing a little. "What?"

"You're pretty good."

She blushes further at my compliment and turns her head away. "Nothing compared to you," she mumbles. Her hands tighten around the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white, and I can't tell if she's nervous or embarrassed. I don't miss the reverence in her voice though, and her subtle admiration.

"Yeah well, I've had years of practice. I have a feeling you just sing for fun," I say with a little bite to my tone.

She must catch on to it because she looks at me like I've said something wrong. "Singing isn't fun for you?" she asks, her brows knit together before she focuses back on the road.

"No it is," I sigh and watch as we turn onto another road, the city lights still bright and looming overhead. "It's just also my job now, so sometimes it's hard to distinguish the difference." My sincerity catches me off guard. I've never been so honest about this stuff before, and it's scary that it's with someone I've only known for three weeks. But she asks questions with so much authenticity and looks at me like she actually cares about what I have to say more than anyone else. It's something I'm not used to. Even Quinn usually only half listens to me because she's always concerned about other stuff.

"But it's what you want though, right?" Brittany turns to face me when we're stopped at a red light.

I don't hesitate to answer. "Absolutely." It's never been a question to me. I've always wanted to sing.

She studies my face until the light changes, and I want to know what she sees more than anything. What is she reading across my face between the things that I tell her? It makes me uneasy to think that she knows things about me without me even telling her. Or things that I don't even know about myself.

She turns down a one-way street and pulls into a small parking lot behind a row of buildings. She looks at me with an excited smile and the desire to make her cheeks blush and that delicious giggle to return is too overwhelming. "Time to go play with some pussies," I joke with a straight face, and watch as hers turns redder than I've ever seen someone's face turn.

Her eyes go wide before she swallows, hard, and licks her lips. She doesn't say anything in return, just stares at me as she lets out a little laugh. I wish I could read what she's thinking. I watch as her eyes flick back and forth between mine, before dropping to my lips and back up again.

My stomach flutters and I can't help the way I lick my lips out of habit.

Maybe I just need to get laid. It's been a while, and obviously I'm a little frustrated if I'm taking everything she's doing as having a double meaning. I know I'm the one who made the joke, but she has a way of turning everything into something I find attractive, and that's just – there's no way.

I make a mental note to text Micah tomorrow. I know he's scheduled to work in the studio around noon because Sam said he couldn't come with Quinn and I to the spa because he had to work. Not that Sam ever wants to come, but he acts like a little girl if we don't invite him.

"I don't know what to think about you yet, Santana," she states flatly before unbuckling and getting out of her car with one last small chuckle.

I have no clue in hell what that means, and I'm joining her at the back of the car before I can think about it much longer. I follow her to the back door of one of the buildings, trying to remember the last time I had _released some frustration_ because when my eyes dip to appreciate her ass in those jeans, I know it's now a critical situation.

The soft mews and whiny meows ring loud as she opens the door, and she offers a sweet "hey guys," that has them quieting almost immediately. It's nice to know I'm not the only one she has such a strong influence on, even if I'm basically comparing myself to cats. I have a feeling she has this affect on people in general.

A fat grey one with stripes hobbles down the hallway towards us, rubbing up against Brittany's legs as he weaves between them. "Hey you big flirt," she coos as she bends to scoop him up in her arms. He has to weigh almost thirty pounds, and it's definitely not a crime to marvel at the way the muscles in her arms tense as she holds him. "Did you keep everyone in line?" She scratches around his ears and under his chin, and the rumble of his purr echoes around us.

"I think he might've ate the others Britt," I chuckle and don't miss the way his yellow eyes narrow at me.

She turns to me with a large smile, holding him higher in her arms as if she were offering him to me to hold. "Santana, there's someone I'd like you to meet. This is Lord Tubbington, the greatest cat in the world. Lord Tubbington, this is Santana. She's a famous singer, so you better behave," she introduces and I can't help but laugh at how odd and adorable the whole exchange is.

The cat lets out a little meow and she seems to think that it's his way of saying hi or accepting me or something, because she kisses the top of his head before placing him back on the ground.

"He's mine. I bring him here when I work so he can guard the place," she states as she brushes off his hair from her shirt. "And that way we'll both have something to talk about before bed."

Things make a lot more sense when she tells me that, and it's really only fitting that she has an obese cat that she has actual conversations with.

She walks down the hall and I notice the glass doors on either side, blinking eyes staring back at me as we pass by. She flicks on a few lights and sets down her keys at the front desk. Lord Tubbington jumps up on the chair behind the desk and settles down, obviously happy that he's now off duty.

She grabs my hand and leads me to the first door, flipping the light switch until a room full of kittens is illuminated. "These are the babies. They're too young to be with the older cats," she informs me. They're running all over the place, jumping on each other and the structure that's set up in the corner. She opens the door and ushers me inside, closing it quickly behind us as they bound over to us.

She scoops three into her arms, lifting them up and giving them all kisses as they meow back at her. I can feel tiny paws slapping against my ankles, but I'm too entranced in watching her to care. She's so gentle with them, the way she moves them until all three of them are somehow cuddled in her arms. She's muttering to them softly, like a mother to a child, and I can't do anything but smile and ignore the way my heart swells and beats erratically.

"This is Joe," she begins, pointing her nose at the little black one in her arms. "He was found under someone's porch." She manages to scratch under his chin and I don't know how she does it with only two hands. "This beautiful little girl is Bella. She's blind." Her fingers rub over the calico kitten, and I notice the way she cries with closed eyes as she looks around for the source of love she's being given. "And this is Princess Peach," she smiles at the Siamese one with big blue eyes. There's something unbelievably remarkable about the resemblance between the kitten and the person whose arms are holding her.

I finally look down at the ones still on the ground around my feet. There's two more black ones, a grey one, and three orange and white ones. "And who are these little guys?"

Brittany kisses the three in her arms one more time before nodding her head toward the two black ones more interested in tackling each other than us. "That's Alfalfa and Delilah. They're in love, but don't realize it yet," she giggles as one topples over the other. "The little grey one pawing at your leg is Captain Jack Sparrow. He likes to be held."

I hear the hint in her voice and smile as I lean down and pick him up. He squirms in my hands before pawing at my nose. She laughs at us, and he seems to think that it's a good thing because he keeps doing it. I pull him away from my face and settle him in the crook of my arm, cradling him as he lets out a little yawn.

I look up and see that she's smiling at me, and I want to ask her why, but she turns her attention to the other kittens. "The orange one with four white feet is Agnes. She's grumpy and a little bitch." I laugh and look at her like she has to be kidding. "I'm serious. She's the devil."

I look back at the kitten, now swatting at the swooshing tail of one of the black ones as they continue to play with each other. It's funny until she extends her claws and catches the tail, the other kitten letting out a cry.

"See what I mean?" Brittany kicks at Agnes with her foot until she's scampering away to the climbing structure in the corner. "The other two orange ones are Garfield and Toffee," she finishes and Jack shifts in my arms until he's licking at my wrist. The roughness of his tongue catches me by surprise, and I let out a noise that has Brittany giggling at me.

She sets the ones in her arms down and I do the same with Jack. I watch as she walks over to the bowls of food and water against the wall, and checks to make sure they have enough. I feel a head rubbing against my leg and a floppy body falling over my foot. I look down to see Princess Peach staring back up at me with those hypnotizing eyes, and I can't resist the urge to bend down and pick her up. She curls up in my arms and I feel my face ache with how much I'm smiling at her.

"She likes you." Brittany nods her head at us, and I can see the wheels turning behind her eyes.

"She'll like the people that adopt her just as much," I state firmly. There's no way in hell I need a little fur ball running around my house, tearing up the place while I'm at work. Even if her eyes are so much like the ones that mesmerized me at the club weeks ago.

Brittany seems to see through my statement though, and just rolls her eyes and nods along. "You can stay here while I check on the other rooms if you want?" she smirks.

"No, I'm good." I kiss Peach's head and set her down, much to her dismay as she cries out. It's really annoying that she actually has me thinking about it because she's just so pathetic right now. And the thought of something to cuddle at night doesn't hurt either.

I follow Brittany out of the room and down the hall to the next. She introduces me to all of the cats by name, and it amazes me that she knows them all. She must spend a lot of time here, and the way she handles them with such love and care is really endearing.

When we leave the last of the rooms, she walks back to the front desk for her stuff and scoops Lord Tubbington in her arms. "Ready to go bud?" she asks, and receives a tired meow in return. She smiles at me before walking down the hall towards the back door. I help her lock it up when I see her struggle to do it with the fat lump in her arms.

She lets him roam the back seat, and when she settles in the driver seat next to me, she doesn't turn on the car. Instead she turns to face me, her keys dropping to her lap. "Sooooo," she draws out, briefly glancing in the back seat to make sure her cat is okay.

"Sooooo," I mimic, smiling when she grins back at me. There's a quick flash of fur as her cat jumps onto the rear dash to look out the window.

"What do you want to do now?" she asks, then yawns, and it's funny how she's trying to plan something when she's obviously so tired.

"I think you're a little too sleepy to be doing anything," I taunt with a smile, and she leans her head against the back of her seat and giggles.

She looks at me for a while, and I'm surprised how comfortable I feel. It's unusual to not think like I have to fill the silence with someone I barely know, and I lean against the back of my seat, content to just sit here with her.

She laughs after a moment, and I raise my brow at her in question. I know she thinks I'm funny, but I can't be _that_ hilarious that she laughs even when I'm doing the exact same thing as her. "Sorry." She waves her hand at me as she continues to laugh. "It's just, my sister would probably go crazy if she knew who I was hanging out with. You're like her role model."

I don't know what to say to that, so I look down at my lap, smiling at the words I've heard before.

"But what's funny is not the fact that I'm sitting here with you. It's the fact that you're like a normal person."

I look up at her at that. "I am a normal person," I attest. I know what it's like looking up to a celebrity, but I hate the pedestal people have put me on. It sucks to have to uphold a certain image and make sure that I don't say or do anything that will displease anyone.

"I know," she nods her head with a slight grin. "I wouldn't like you so much if you weren't." The playfulness in her voice and the small cock to her eyebrow makes my stomach flutter.

She goes back to watching me, and I feel as if we're having a silent conversation as she returns my smile. It isn't until there's a shrill meow from the back seat that I realize we've been sitting there for a lot longer than what should be acceptable. I cough a little awkwardly and tear my gaze away from her to look out her windshield.

"We should probably get going before he gets fussy. He doesn't like being out too late," she declares and turns in her seat to start the car. "I can take you home, or if you're like worried about me knowing where you live, I can drop you off wherever you like."

I'm a little upset that she's talking about taking me home instead of inviting me to continue to spend time with her, but it is getting late. And I know she's exhausted. It makes me wonder if she normally doesn't invite people to her house after only knowing them for a few weeks, or if it's just the fact that it's me she doesn't want coming over.

I'm almost too busy wondering to recognize everything she's said. Do I care if she knows where I live?

No.

But I know I should care. I know I would care if it were anyone else.

"You can take me home," I remark. She glances over at me with a cheeky smile and a softness in her eyes, and again I feel that somehow we're communicating without having to say anything. Like she's just acknowledged the fact that I don't do this often, and thanking me that I'm trusting her. It's scary.

I tell her where to turn, and thirty minutes later she's pulling into my driveway. She seems to hesitate when she puts the car in park, almost as if she's contemplating walking me to my door. "Thanks for the ride," I say with a reassuring smile that hopefully she understands she doesn't need to get out.

I move to get out, but her hand on my arm stops me. I turn back around to face her, and she's grinning at me like I've forgotten something. My purse is in my hands, and I didn't bring anything else, so I'm confused as to what I could have forgotten.

"Um, I just," she begins to mumble. It really shouldn't be cute how much her cheeks pink and the way she grows shy all of a sudden.

"Britt, what is it?" I ask when she removes her hand from my arm.

"I just figured you would want my number, so you wouldn't have to come to the club anymore, if you didn't want to," she mutters barely above a whisper. It's funny how timid she's being when I know for a fact she's a confident person. It would be impossible for her to do her job if she wasn't sure of herself.

There's no use fighting a smile as I nod my head, although the fleeting disappointment of not being able to see her work flashes through my relief at not having to go back to the strip club.

I dig through my purse and unlock my phone, opening up my contact list and handing it to her. She smirks as she types in her number, giggling as her fingers move across the screen. I look at her in slight confusion, wondering how giving me her number can be funny. When she gives me back my phone, I notice immediately why she was laughing. Next to her name there's an icon that resembles a lily from my picture keyboard.

"Now you don't have to wait a week to talk to me," she winks with a knowing smile.

My mouth fumbles for something to say, but nothing comes out. When one of the corners of her lips curl upward, and she looks at me like no one has ever looked at me, like I'm so special that I could fucking cure cancer, I know I need to get out of the car. There's a buzzing over my skin and my stomach is flipping, and I just really need some fresh air away from her.

I also really need to call Micah. Apparently finding everything this girl does as cute is my body's way of telling me it has gone way too long without sex.

"I'll talk to you soon Brittany," I call as I get out of her car and shut the door behind me. "Thanks again for tonight," I add through the open window. "I had fun."

She grins and nods, staying parked in my driveway as she waits to make sure I get in safely.

I hate it. I hate how my body reacts to her. I hate that it thinks it's turned on right now.

I barely make it in bed and under my covers before my hand is slipping down my stomach and under my pajama bottoms. I squeeze my eyes shut tight in guilt and shame at the images in my mind that are spurring on the movements of my hand.

* * *

"Q?" I utter against the massage table as hands work down my calves. I hear Quinn's table rustle with her movement, and I pick my head up to look at her. Her masseuse is working on her shoulders, a white towel draped over her butt, and I find myself looking at the slight swell of skin where her breasts are pushed against the table.

I quickly snap my eyes back to Quinn's before she notices, but realize I don't feel anything. There's no flutter in my stomach or pull of excitement, and maybe last night's self-obtained orgasm was exactly what I needed. I don't feel any different about Quinn. Except maybe a little embarrassment for silently checking out my best friend.

She's still looking at me, and I remember that I had wanted to ask her something. But it's not really a conversation I want to be having with two extra sets of ears in the room.

"Never mind," I whisper and shake my head, putting it back down as I try to enjoy my massage. But my mind won't stop. It won't stop reminding me how wrong last night was. How confused I am about recent scenarios. How unhappy I am that Quinn can't help me because I haven't told her anything.

I don't even know what to tell her.

After we're finished with our massages, we go to the sauna room. When the only other woman in there leaves, Quinn turns to me and raises her eyebrow. "So?" she draws out in a question.

I look at her, trying to decide what I want to say. Maybe she's felt similar things before. Maybe it's completely normal to find other girls attractive and I'm just being a fucking idiot.

"Um, have you…have you ever…" I stumble over my words, wondering why in the hell my confidence has decided to take a vacation ever since Brittany came into my life. I'm never embarrassed by what I have to say or think. But apparently that's not so true anymore.

I swallow hard and pull myself together. There's no way I'm going to have this conversation with Quinn unless I can make it look like it's no big deal, and hasn't been bugging me for days.

"Some girls are too pretty," I profess. It's not exactly what I mean, but it's enough of a start to gauge Quinn's reaction. I'm pressing my fingertips into the underside of my thighs as I prepare myself for her typical condescending tone.

"Tell me about it," she scoffs instead with a roll of her eyes. My body releases some of its tension and starts to relax as Quinn plays with the cuticle on her thumb. "I literally couldn't take my eyes off of this girl at the gym the other day. Her body was insane. It was great motivation to stay an extra hour and run another three miles." Quinn continues, adjusting the towel around her as she changes the way she's sitting.

I stare at her, unblinking and unsure of what to say. She said a lot more than I thought she would, but yet it's still so different from what I feel when I look at Brittany.

I don't want to look like Brittany. I want to – I quickly decide not to finish that thought.

I settle for a nod and turn to face the opposite wall. I think I'm more confused than I was before I started talking to Quinn.

"Wait, that's it? That's what you wanted to talk to me about?" she asks, and I know I have to say something else. She's too intuitive and she knows I obviously wanted to talk to her earlier about something semi serious, or I wouldn't have needed privacy to do so.

But I don't want to talk about Brittany or girls or my confusion anymore.

"I'm thinking about texting Micah later," I decide to say instead.

"What? Why? I thought you were done with him after the last time." She looks at me with slight uncertainty, and I smile at the way her hair has frizzed in the humidity.

I shrug my shoulders and comb my fingers through my own hair to make sure it's not as frizzy as Quinn's. "It's nothing serious. Just, you know, some drinks and stuff."

"Santana, that boy has stuff with a lot of girls. He uses his fans as like a real life sex catalog or something," Quinn says with disgust. She's never liked him. I don't think the rap he made about her being a stuck up tease as a joke one night when we were all drinking really helped either.

But Quinn doesn't understand. I need the distraction. I need to remind myself that I'm not attracted to Brittany in the same sense I am with guys. It's just some type of crush because I really like her as a friend.

I don't say anything else to Quinn about him, and she starts telling me about how Sam called her last night while he was out drunk with his friends. She blabbers on about what he said and how annoying he was, but there's a sweetness in her voice that makes it obvious she wasn't bothered by his phone call at all.

I'm starting to wonder if they like each other but haven't admitted it yet. Sort of like Alfalfa and Delilah according to Brittany.

As we're leaving the spa, I send a text to Micah, inviting him over later tonight, ignoring the way my stomach protests the action.

* * *

When I pull into my driveway after dropping Quinn off, I almost smash into the car already parked in it. I slam on my brakes, my body lurching forward as I stop. I'm about to get out and give the idiot a piece of mind when I realize the car looks familiar.

I try to peer in and see who it is, but the car's empty. I turn to walk to my door to maybe call the police or a towing service when I find Brittany sitting on my front step, half standing when she sees that I'm shocked and a little upset by the added car in my driveway.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you. I don't work until eight, and I thought maybe you'd want to do something. But then I realized I don't have your number, and I know this probably seems stalkerish, and I should probably just go," she rambles and stands up completely before I even have time to process half of what she's said.

The thought of her wanting to see me, and just coming over when she couldn't call me makes my stomach flip. But then she's walking past me towards her car, and I don't want her to leave. "Wait," I call as I grasp her arm, instantly pulling back when I realize I've touched her.

There are rules. I'm not allowed to touch.

But we're not at her work. Are there still rules here?

I shake my head at my ever-growing confusion.

She's looking at me with those damn blue eyes, and I know that my afternoon plans have completely changed. "You want to come in?" I ask, and watch as a delighted smile pulls at her lips as she nods her head. "Okay," I nod my head with her and turn to walk to my front door, her following a few steps behind.

I unlock the door and open it, motioning with my arm for her to go in first. She passes with a look on her face I can't read and steps into my entryway. I close the door behind me and watch as she just stands right inside, looking around at what she can see. I have no clue what her place looks like, so I don't know how mine compares. But the wideness of her eyes and the way she takes a few steps forward to peer into the living room makes me think that mine might be a little more than she's used to.

"Too much?" I ask with a chuckle as her eyes go even wider when she notices the size of my television. It's one of the only things I've actually splurged on. Watching some Real Housewives is only good when it's on a ninety-inch screen.

"A little," she replies, a shyness to her voice as she looks around the rest of my living room. "But it's not what I expected," she comments when she looks at my shelves of books.

"Is that a good thing?" I laugh out. For some reason I care about her opinion more than I've ever cared about anyone's. The thought of her not liking my place settles in my stomach like rotten food.

She turns to me and smiles that dopey, shy smile with her eyes bright, and she doesn't answer me. For the first time since she's been here, I look at what she's wearing. Black parachute pants with white palm trees on them, and a red top covered by an unbuttoned cream sweater. It's something I would never wear, and would probably make fun of anyone who thought it would be a good idea to call this fashion, but somehow she pulls it off. She makes it seem comfortable and nice and it's really ridiculous how easily she can change my mind without even trying.

"Make yourself at home," I point towards the couch. "Would you like a glass of wine or something else to drink?"

"Surprise me," she smirks as she sits down. I leave to go to the kitchen before I can even think about what that smirk is doing to me.

I give her a glass of my favorite red wine, and settle on the other end of the couch, watching as she takes a sip. "Oh my god, how did you know?" she asks as she smacks her lips together. I'm too busy watching her lips and the way her tongue pokes out to lick them to process what she's saying. "This is one of my favorites. My mom bought me a bottle for my twenty-first birthday, and I haven't been able to find it again since." She's smiling and looking at me like I've just given her the best present she's ever received.

I choose to overlook the fact that one of her favorite wines just so happens to be my favorite.

It doesn't mean anything, really.

"What else did you do for your twenty-first?" I sip at my own glass, wanting to know anything and everything about her.

"I went to Vegas with some friends. Stayed in the Luxor, got really drunk, and thought the hotel was caving in on us," she laughs and pulls her feet underneath her. The image of her getting comfortable on my couch is one I never knew I wanted or needed until now. I curse at my own absurdity and focus on her story instead.

"Caving in?" I question as my brows scrunch. I'm pretty sure the Luxor has never caved in on anyone.

"Yeah, you know how it's shaped like a pyramid?" she explains and I can't help the laugh that bubbles out. She has to be one of the only people to think that the hotel was closing in on her in her drunken state.

She goes off on a tangent about how her mom had been nervous when she decided to move to California, and how she had warned that Vegas parties were meant to be few and far between. I want to know why she decided to move, considering she had gone to college to be with her boyfriend. I then wonder if she's still with her boyfriend, and if he moved here with her or is still in college in Pennsylvania.

It's obvious she likes telling stories because she launches into one about her in a dance recital when she was eight and how she had dropped a butter knife on her big toe a few days beforehand, and sliced off a piece of skin. "It was like dancing on glass," she shudders at the memory.

We've finished a second glass of wine when she asks about my family, and if I did anything but sing growing up. "I tried soccer when I was younger, but hated it. Then my mom had me join the church choir, and I've been hooked ever since."

"I bet people were jealous of you in high school," she comments as she pours herself a third glass.

"Some were," I nod. "But a lot of people at my high school were trying to do something in the business. I had friends that missed so many classes for auditions, I'm surprised they were able to graduate."

"You must have had tons of attention from guys though. Pretty and talented, they would've been dumb not to be interested," she continues. My heart sinks and my stomach coils at the darkened look in her eyes. I can't tell if she's just being overly sweet or if she's actually flirting.

Either way, I know I'm turned on by it. I can feel it low in my gut. And I know I'll have to take care of that later.

I lick my lips and change the subject, asking her about her high school. We've both finished our third glass of wine when she announces she needs to leave to get ready for work.

I hate how disappointed I get.

I walk her to the door, and I should be reprimanded for how much I try to check her out, even through the loose layer of clothing she's wearing. She offers me a warm smile and hesitates in the doorway, almost as if she's trying to decide whether it would be okay to hug me or not.

My stomach coils further at the thought.

She opts not to though, and walks out the door, stopping on the front step and turning back to face me. "Thanks for the wine and company," she says. "I'll talk to you soon. And I promise not to be a stalker next time," she grins.

I only focus on the way she says _next time._ Like it's a promise we'll see each other again.

It isn't until I've closed the door and checked my phone that I realize what time it is, and how soon Micah said he would be over. I put the empty bottle of wine in the recycling bin and make sure there are a few cold beers in the fridge, before going to take a quick shower to wash off the spa and the lingering effects of Brittany.

* * *

It doesn't help. I tried so hard to make myself believe that all I needed was to get laid, and it doesn't help. Because all I can think about as he's hovering over me, breathing hotly in my ear as he moves, is Brittany. How she looked when she was giving me a lap dance. The images I've conjured in my mind of her with her boyfriend. There's no doubt in my mind she's had sex, and the thought of Brittany's body fucking someone else makes me come faster than any movement Micah's doing above me.

It's frustrating and confusing and I don't understand. I don't understand why I can't even focus on him like I used to. I don't understand why my body's reacting the way it is. I don't understand why I'm feeling as if I have a crush on Brittany, when Brittany and I have just started being friends.

I thought my body's confusion would be cleared with some friends with benefits action with Micah, but it's only made the confusion cloudier. I feel like my brain is sitting in a room full of smoke, trying to find the door to safety, and it keeps choosing the wrong damn door. It's mixing up a closet for an escape, and all I want to do is shout that there's a difference.

I should not be turned on when I'm with Brittany. And I most certainly should not be thinking about Brittany when I'm with a guy I've been with countless times before I even met her.

Maybe after Brittany and I become closer friends, my body will realize that it's been sending me the wrong signals.

It'll understand that its fascination with Brittany is because she's an interesting person, and not someone I want to fantasize about.

And maybe once my body realizes this, it can explain it to me. Because as Micah falls asleep, his arm draped over my chest, all I wish is that a paler arm was in its place.


	5. Chapter Four

A/N: Thank you! As always, thank you to Chrissy and Bekah.

* * *

**Chapter Four – I Won't Quit, Cause I Want More**

_Los Angeles, April 2013._

* * *

"Tilt your head. Good," the photographer calls behind his camera as a series of flashes goes off. The fan situated on the ground blows my curled hair around my face, the hem of the salmon colored dress I'm wearing whipping at my knees. It's the third outfit I've had on today, and we're just about finished with the inside portion of the shoot.

I turn my body to the side, glancing over my shoulder to the sound of more photos being taken. After a few more flashes, I part my lips in a smile. It's tedious and mundane, but my body knows the movements as if on autopilot. Each photo shoot is similar enough to offer the same poses to get the job done. It's just the costumes and the direction of the photographer that changes, and thankfully today's shoot for Seventeen magazine is relatively simple and easy. Very unlike the dark and serious theme of Entertainment magazine I did a few months ago.

Two people off camera wheel in a piano, and the photographer instructs me to sit on the edge with some help from a stepping block. He waits for my hair and make-up team to make sure everything's perfect once I'm settled on top. After another twenty minutes, he calls a wrap for this set, and motions for me to get changed into my last outfit, a pair of jean shorts and a black bikini top, and meet him outback.

The first image that pops in my head is how Brittany looked the last time I saw her in similar attire. How well her breasts had filled out her bra, and the smoothness of her bare stomach. It makes me wonder what she would think if she saw me right now.

Would she think I was as beautiful as I thought she was?

Amy, my make-up artist, applies a little blush along my cheekbones, and glosses over my lips with a fresh coat of light red lipstick.

The set outside has a red couch situated in the grass. Again I think about Brittany and the way she had been practically sitting in my lap on the couch at her work. I shake my head and try to focus as the photographer tells me which way he wants me to sit first. He tells me to move in different positions every twenty or so shutters of his lens, some laying down, some sitting on the back of the couch.

By early afternoon we're finished, and I've never been more thankful to change back into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved cardigan. Los Angeles isn't quite warm enough yet to be frolicking around in a bathing suit all day.

The interview's taking place at a little café downtown, and I have about forty minutes until I'm supposed to be there. I take out my phone as I'm walking to my car, looking through my messages. There's one from Quinn saying how bored she is at work. There are a few tweets, one from Micah with a picture of him in the studio.

I decide I should send out a tweet since I haven't in a while. It's always fun to see the responses. Except some of them can get a little creepy.

_Just finished a shoot I'm excited for you all to see._

I push tweet with a smirk, knowing being vague is such a tease and I love it. I don't wait to see the responses, and instead I open a new message and click on Brittany's name.

_Hey. I don't know if you work tonight, but if you're not busy, want to come over? I remember you said you liked One Tree Hill, so we could have a marathon or something. I'll cook :)_

Did I really just say I'll cook her dinner and then add a fucking smiley face? Smooth Santana. Real fucking smooth.

I get on 101-S toward L.A., turning on a Spotify playlist Quinn made for me the other day. The first song that comes on doesn't sound like something I would normally listen to, but I let it play to give it a chance, knowing Quinn's taste in music is usually pretty good.

The guitar picks up just as my phone signals I have a message. I look down to see it's from Brittany, and can't help the smile that forms as I open it.

_I'm off. And Santana Lopez can cook? This is something I think I have to see ;)_

The lyrics blast through my speakers, and I know I shouldn't text while I'm driving, but I don't want her to think I'm ignoring her. I keep my eyes on the road as I type out a quick reply, only glancing down to make sure everything is spelled correctly.

_You keep being a smart ass and I'll only cook for one. _

It's flirtier than I initially planned, but it just comes naturally. And the single wink face she sends in return is enough evidence that she's flirting back. The chorus of the song begins and it hits me hard. It's painfully accurate as I send back a time for her to come over, and I turn the volume up to listen to the song better.

I've repeated it about five times before I arrive at the café. It lingers in my mind as I shut off my car and walk inside, and I really shouldn't be distracted before an interview. I can't afford to answer questions without a hundred percent clarity in what I'm thinking and saying.

The interviewer sees me enter and stands to make her presence known. She introduces herself as Kristen and sits down once I join her at her table. I order a wild berry smoothie and she writes something down.

"Thank you for meeting me Ms. Lopez," Kristen smiles at me above the rim of her glasses.

"Santana," I quickly say. I hate when people call me Ms. Lopez. It seems too formal and like I'm in my forties.

Her blonde hair is styled in a pixie cut, and I can see a tattoo peeking out from the hem of her shirtsleeve. I'm a little surprised Seventeen magazine has given her the position of interviewing for their articles, because most of the time I meet with people who dress too much like professionals in half suits and business skirts.

She seems more relaxed. This in turn makes me more relaxed. I settle into my seat and interlock my hands together on the table in front of me as I wait for her to begin. She pulls out a recorder and places it on the table.

"Santana," she repeats, holding her pen against her notepad as she looks at me. "You're currently working on a new album correct?"

I nod and squeeze my hands together a little tighter as I lean forward. "Yeah, I've been in the studio recording for the past couple of weeks. It's a long process, but I'm hoping to get a single out before summer."

"That's right, because you're going on tour this summer." The way she cuts into the conversation is nice and makes the interview flow a lot easier than some of the others I've had.

"Yeah an American tour. I wanted to go to different countries, but my manager didn't want my first tour to be too much, even though I practically begged him," I chuckle, the argument I had with Sam a few months ago when we first started planning for my tour replaying in my mind. I thought it would be good for me to go to Canada at least, and maybe even parts of Europe, but he said there was always next time.

She writes down a few notes and quotes before the waiter brings over my smoothie and her green tea.

"There's been a few rumors of a collaboration between you and Micah Jones since you share the same manager and record label. Personally I'm on the side of wanting this to happen, can you tell me anything about that?" she asks then takes a sip of her drink.

"We have talked about it, especially since we're both working on our albums at the same time. We've proposed the idea of him rapping on one of my tracks, or me singing on one of his, but so far nothing has been planned. So we'll see."

She nods and writes more down on her notepad. I remember my first interview and how I had been so nervous about not knowing exactly what they were writing down, that I tried to read everything upside down just to make sure. But Sam had reassured me afterwards that they can't put my words in quotes unless they wrote down something I said exactly. And they can do whatever they want with the other information because it's their job to make it appealing, even if they alter it sometimes.

Plus my PR usually tells them ahead of time what questions they're not allowed to ask, so usually I don't have to worry about questions that are too invasive. Unless it's a certain article they want to cause a little controversy. I don't always understand my PR's angle, but I pay him to basically sell me to the public, so I trust him.

"You two attended an event together in November. Any hints of a romance?" The way she smiles is half interest, half apologetic, like she truly wants to know the answer, but at the same time knows she's only asking the question because her boss is making her.

I let out a little laugh, a trick my PR taught me whenever I'm asked about potential romances. For some reason it adds to the answer. "We're good friends. It was an event for our label and we just decided to go together for fun. He's a very nice guy, and very talented. I listened to one of his songs off his new album the other day and I'm excited for everyone else to hear it."

Every time I'm asked about another celebrity, I always compliment them, even if I don't necessarily believe it. It's the easiest and nicest way to get through those types of questions.

She scribbles down on her notepad and I take a sip of my smoothie. I feel my phone vibrate in my purse at my feet and I smile, somehow knowing it's Brittany without even having to look.

Kristen must see me smile before I can hide it and questions it immediately. "Is there someone else special in your life right now?"

The question kind of takes me by surprise. Mostly because I'm shocked my PR would allow it. But again I let out a little laugh and shake my head. "I don't have the time to be honest. I'm either in the studio or at home, as lame as that sounds." I purposely keep out the fact that just because I'm at home doesn't mean I'm alone.

But Brittany isn't someone special.

Well she is, but not in the way Kristen means.

Right?

Yes.

"What do you do on your days off?"

I swallow the glob of smoothie in my mouth and grin. People are always so interested in what I like to do. If only they knew I've spent the last three weekends at a strip club. "Sometimes I visit my family. Or take mini vacations with friends. About a month ago a few us went to Mexico to enjoy some sun when it was really cold here. I don't know, I just try to enjoy myself. I don't want my life consumed by the industry if that makes sense, so I try and balance things out. After spending a while in the studio or doing press and stuff, I'll make sure I do something just for me. It helps keep me grounded."

"That's a good mindset to have in this business. Have you always had that understanding?"

I nod my head. "Absolutely. My mom told me the minute I got cocky or if I started taking things for granted, I wouldn't be a singer anymore. And after seeing the way so many people in this industry lose themselves, I try extra hard to make sure I'm thankful for everything life's given me. Even if that means I spend some Friday nights on my couch with some DVR," I chuckle. It's definitely not a lie, but it helps to make it sound like I don't care about the fame. I do. I've worked hard for it. But I also don't care about making sure I'm invited to every party or on the front of every gossip magazine.

"Your mom sounds like a lovely woman. It's obvious she's raised a sensible daughter," Kristen comments, smiling at me as she writes down a few notes.

"She is," I reply, even though I don't need to. Kristen nods and I sip at my smoothie as I wait for her next question.

"Will you be making music videos for some of your songs in time for the VMA's?"

"I hope so. I don't see why not, but I guess it depends on how everything goes with the tour. We start in June and go to August, and the awards are in September, so it'll be a little rushed. But I'd really like to." There's a particular song in mind I'd love to do a video for, but it just depends on when I finish the album I guess.

She drops her pen and clasps her hands together over her notepad before looking at me. "Since this is for our summer issue, we'd like to do a little segment where we ask a few of your favorite summer activities." I nod my head in understanding. "Okay, first thing. Monokini or bikini?"

"Bikini." I'm about to explain my choice but she starts the next question, and I realize the point of this segment is almost like a speed round. I'm supposed to simply choose one or the other like the quizzes in Cosmo.

"Poolside or beachside?"

"Hmm, I'm gonna have to go with poolside."

"BBQ's or picnics?"

"Definitely BBQ's," I answer without hesitation. Grilling has always been something we've done as a family when I was younger, and I love when Sam and Quinn come over and we make kabobs.

"Dresses or shorts?"

"Both." She looks at me in question, silently asking me to explain this answer. "I love summer dresses when I'm out and about, but I like shorts when I want to relax a little more."

"Summer workout?"

"Running." It's really the only type of workout I like. Sometimes I'll take a yoga class or a spin class, but there's just something about running that I really enjoy.

"Summer nail color?"

"Essie Too Too Hot." I remember Quinn picking out the color a week ago and I shift my hands to hold my fingers up to Kristen to show her the bright red color.

She smiles and jots down a quick note. "Last one. Road trips or house parties?"

"Definitely road trips."

She nods her head, and with one last stroke of her pen she puts it down and turns off the recorder. "Thank you so much Santana. It was very lovely talking with you this afternoon." She sticks out her hand for me to shake and I oblige. She finishes her tea and packs up her stuff while I continue to drink my smoothie. I was busy answering questions and making sure blue eyes did not slip through my vocabulary, that my smoothie is still half full. I decide spending a little longer in the café drinking it the worst way to spend more of my afternoon.

But as soon as Kristen leaves with one last smile, I'm picking up my phone and checking my messages. Brittany's sent a reply to the time I told her to come, but there's another one from her asking what she should wear. Followed by another saying never mind, and yet another saying to just ignore her.

It's impossibly cute and I try to suppress the giggle that tickles at the back of my throat.

_Can you talk?_ I send with quick presses of my fingers against my phone's screen.

With another sip of my drink, my phone vibrates in my hand. _Is this a trick question? Can't everyone with mouths talk?_

There's no use holding back my laugh as it bubbles past my lips. _I meant on the phone Britt._

I'm setting my cup back down on the table when my phone vibrates, this time with an incoming call. Brittany's name reads across the top as I scroll my finger along the bottom to answer it.

"Hey." I try and hold back the smile in my voice and my eagerness to talk to her again.

"Hi," she greets, but it's muffled. I can hear her chew and swallow before she smacks her lips together. "Sorry. I wanted a snack before dinner," she says before the sound of her biting into something echoes through the phone. "And sorry I didn't know what you meant. I thought it was a joke or something."

"It's okay," I laugh, my mouth quickly snapping closed. But it's too late. I know she's heard it and the way my voice is softer and lighter than usual.

Or is this how I always sound to her?

Maybe my voice is always this bubbly and giggly when it's directed at her, and this is just normal.

"What are you doing?" she asks around another mouthful of whatever she's eating. I find myself trying to guess what it is by the crispness of her voice and the way she slurps after taking a bite. It has to be some kind of fruit, and it makes me wonder what her favorite fruit is.

"I just got finished with a photo shoot and interview for a magazine." My voice almost makes it sound like I'm embarrassed, which I'm not. But it feels lame telling her for some reason.

"Really? What magazine?"

I smile at her enthusiasm and her general interest in what I'm doing. It doesn't come from a place of newsworthy gossip or fanning awe. It's just simple wonderment in my job.

"Seventeen. It's for their summer issue." I settle back into my seat and sip on my smoothie, watching as a girl in line looks over and notices me. I smile politely and turn away, hoping she won't come over and interrupt my phone call with Brittany. Maybe I should finish my drink a little quicker so I can leave.

"That sounds cool. Does it mean you got to wear bathing suits?" she questions, and there's an air to her voice that's dripping with something I don't want to put a name to – too afraid of its meaning.

"Yeah," I mumble, finishing my drink and setting it down on the table as I gather my things. I listen to her go off on a rant about how when she first moved to California, a friend invited her to this shoot because she knew the choreographer, and they were looking for more dancers to fill the shots. She rattles on about how they had to wear these gold bikinis and their hair was done in long braids.

I'm seated in my car when she finishes, and I can tell by the way her voice fades out that she's thinking about my offer. It's evident in how quickly she speaks softer, like she's remembering how much she enjoyed dancing professionally. I want to make her dreams come true so badly, but I don't know how.

It really isn't my job though, but I don't focus on that.

People are allowed to want their friends' dreams to come true.

"So, what are you cooking for me tonight?" Her voice breezes over the phone once I'm pulling out of the café and driving towards my house.

"Are you allergic to anything, or is there any food you don't like?" I ask instead of answering.

"Nope," she responds around another mouthful of whatever she's currently munching on.

"Then it's a surprise," I say with a grin that's a little too big. I feel like I'm just being nice and excited to have her over, and to cook for her. But I can't stop the way my mind insists we're flirting though, and the light thrum that courses through me at that thought.

She giggles through the phone and says my name with a pout, but it's transparent enough for me to hear the happiness in her voice.

"And you can wear whatever you want. I don't plan on going out, unless you want to afterwards," I add. I really just want to eat dinner with her and watch pointless television, but I know if she wants to go out, I'd have no problem with joining her.

It's sad really, when I realize that I'd probably do anything she asked me to.

Actually it's a little scary.

But it doesn't make it any less true.

I know deep down I'd do anything to make her happy.

"No, staying in sounds good," she almost shouts through the phone.

I can't hold back the smile that snakes over my lips, and the flutter that flaps in my stomach. "Okay. I'll see you at six then."

She says goodbye before hanging up and I let the phone slip through my hand and onto my lap. I turn on the song I listened to earlier, looking at the name of it this time so I can remember it for later. Young the Giant sounds like the name of a character in a children's book, and I make a mental note to tell Quinn she listens to weird bands.

It's four by the time I make it home, and I immediately set about the house cleaning up. Once things look a little less hectic, I jump in the shower and find myself shaving even though I know I'll be wearing pants since it's still pretty cool outside. I pull on some jeans and a grey shirt, then make my way to kitchen, fully prepared to make her my favorite dish. I'm glad she's supposed to be here in about forty-five minutes, because it gives me less time to worry about things I shouldn't worry about.

Like whether or not this is a date.

Because it isn't.

I don't even want it to be one.

It can't be one.

* * *

The doorbell rings just as I put the vegetables on simmer. I smooth down the front of my shirt and pull pieces of my hair over my shoulders as I walk towards the door. She's wearing jeans too and a purple top that makes her eyes pop. "Hi," she greets and leans forward like she's going to give me a hug, but pulls back.

I wish I could tell her it would be okay to hug me without actually having to say it. Or I wish I could just to do it first so then there wouldn't be any hesitancy. But I don't want her to stand on my doorstep for much longer, since it's getting a little awkward now that I haven't said anything in return.

"Come in." I move to the side so she can walk by. But she pauses when she's standing in front of me, holding out her hand that contains what looks like a homemade pie.

"I thought I'd make something too. It's apple," she explains, and it looks delicious. I take it from her and tell her I'll put it in the fridge while we eat. She sits on one of the stools at the bar overlooking the kitchen as I stir the white rice to make sure it's done. "What'd you make?" she asks, peering over the counter to get a better look at what's in the pans.

"Beef tips, rice, and grilled veggies," I smile as I pour the beef and gravy in a bowl. I set the rice and vegetables in their own bowls and carry both to my kitchen table. I have a fancy table in my dining room that I use around the holidays when I have family over. But I prefer eating at my kitchen table because of the way it overlooks the neighbor's yard. Their garden is beautiful, with so many colorful flowers and even a small fountain.

"What would you like to drink?" I ask as I get out two glasses and open the refrigerator for her to see what I have.

She comes up behind me, and I can almost feel the front of her pressed against my back. My mouth goes dry and I try to swallow the roughness of it away. "I'll have water," she says after a while, then skips to the table. "Do you have a seat you prefer?"

It's really cute how she asks just to make sure. I don't think I've ever met someone as considerate as her. I shake me head and she plops down in one of the chairs. I carry over the two glasses of water then bring over the bowl of beef before sitting in the chair opposite her.

I usually say grace, but it doesn't look like she does, so I lower my head and say a silent prayer. When I look up at her after I'm finished, she's looking at me with a shy smile, her eyes soft and round.

"I would've prayed with you."

"I didn't know," I mumble, suddenly feeling very shy and embarrassed. "I didn't want to make you if you know, you don't believe or anything." My hands are fidgeting in my lap, and this is definitely not a conversation I want to be having. It's always hard for me to talk about religion with other people. I've just been brought up how I've been brought up, and I believe what I believe. But it's not something that runs my life, so I usually don't mention it.

But it seems like I've genuinely upset her by not asking her to join me. That's not what I meant to do at all.

"I believe in everything," she grins.

I decide that's the best answer.

Why? I have no clue.

It just is.

I pick up the serving spoon in the rice and motion for her to give me her plate. She does, and I scoop a pile onto it. Then I add some beef and gravy, and ask what vegetables she wants, and if she wants them mixed in or on the side. "All of them, mixed together please."

She's so polite and nice. Besides Quinn and Sam, and a few others, I'm usually surrounded by people that don't know the meaning of manners. Being in her company is like opening the refrigerator on a summer day. It's refreshing and invigorating, and I can't stop smiling at her.

I serve myself and wait for her to take the first bite. When she does, her cheeks puff and her nose scrunches as she chews. "This is delicious." She scoops another bite onto her fork and eats it.

She's really cute when she eats, and I scold my utter lack of vocabulary and the fact that I've called her cute in just about everything she does.

We eat in relative silence, a few stolen glances here and there, and when we're finished, she volunteers to help clean up. I tell her she doesn't have to since she's a guest. But she insists, saying with four hands we'll get done a lot faster, and that means more episodes of One Tree Hill we can watch.

We set up a routine at the sink, me washing, her drying, and we put the leftovers in the fridge.

"Do you want pie now or later?" I ask as I wipe up the counter around the sink.

"Later," she smirks, and I have no idea how that could have a double meaning for her to have that look on her face. Again I would love to know what she's thinking. She's so easy to read sometimes, and yet other times I have absolutely no clue what could be going through her mind.

We get comfy on the couch, her on one end and me on the other and I gear up the first season of One Tree Hill. I've seen a few episodes, and it's not bad. But the look on her face is too precious for me to be anything but enthusiastic to begin watching this series with her.

"Where's your bathroom?" she asks right as the main credits start rolling on the first episode.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I should've shown you around," I say sheepishly. I keep forgetting the normal things I'm supposed to do around her.

I press pause and get off the couch, her bouncing up after me. "Do you want a tour before or after you go to the bathroom?"

"After. I really have to pee," she giggles and does a little dance that I almost describe as cute before I stop myself.

I take her past the living room and down the hall to the first door on the left. I feel like waiting right outside the door would be awkward, so I go back to the kitchen and grab us both a beer.

I meet her back in the hallway and hand her one of the bottles. She smiles in gratitude and I show her the rest of the downstairs, which only includes another small room at the end of the hall. Right now it's sort of storage and a small office, but it also has a treadmill in there for when I don't feel like running outside. It's basically a room for whatever didn't fit in the other rooms.

I take her upstairs to the guest bedroom and another bathroom. Then I show her my room. I don't know why my stomach jolts when I do, but I watch her carefully as she looks around it. I feel like I'm sharing something special with her because my room has always been my safe place.

She looks over my king bed and sings the line from Rihanna's song. "You probably look so small in such a large bed," she comments and my stomach flips at her words.

She's thinking about me in bed.

Of course she's not. It's just a silly comment.

"My bed is my favorite thing about my place," I say instead. She quirks an eyebrow, and for a second I think she's going to test my statement. But she just smirks and turns towards the bathroom that connects to my room.

I hadn't thought to clean it, so I hope it's not too disgusting when she looks in. "I've always wanted a separate shower and tub," she utters when she looks back at me.

I don't know what to say to that, because the thought of talking about showering with her is just a little too much.

Not showering _with_ her, I correct my thoughts, but it's too late. The images flood my mind and I cough uneasily.

Her brow arcs at me curiously, and I can feel my cheeks heating under her gaze. I swallow and head back out of my room, determined to start our marathon and focus on things besides her in my room or bathroom.

* * *

Three beers and two episodes later she says she's ready for some pie. I tell her to stay on the couch as I go to the kitchen and cut us both a piece. "Do you want vanilla ice cream with it?" I call over my shoulder.

"Yes please," she practically shouts, like a little kid getting permission to eat only ice cream for dinner.

Cute does not enter my mind.

Maybe.

I cradle two new beers in the crook of my arm as I carry in both plates of pie and ice cream. She crosses her legs underneath her to sit up straighter as I hand her one of the plates and a beer. "Are you sure we can eat in here? I don't want to make a mess," she looks down at my couch and the rug at my feet.

"I'm sure. As long as you don't fling it across the room, I think you'll be okay," I retort, loving the way her nose scrunches as she laughs at what I've said. I don't think I'll ever get used to the fact that she finds what I say so funny. But I find myself always trying to be funny in her presence because I know I'll never get tired of making her laugh.

"Who's your favorite character?" she asks as we start the next episode. There's a dribble of ice cream at the corner of her mouth, and I definitely have no thoughts about wiping it away for her.

"Brooke," I answer. It's a simple and obvious choice. Who wouldn't like Brooke?

"Really?" she sort of scoffs. "She's such a bitch."

"She's guarded. And hilarious. Come on, you can't tell me her snarky comments aren't funny," I find myself arguing back. I feel the need to defend her character, and I don't know why.

"Maybe. I mean I love her later on when she stops being so mean, but I've never met anyone who's liked her right from the beginning." Brittany scoops another spoonful of pie and ice cream into her mouth, and I'm hypnotized, watching as it disappears before I see it slide down her throat.

"Sometimes people have reasons for being mean," I mutter before I can stop myself.

She turns and looks at me, studying my face again like she does, and I can't read her eyes. They're almost grey, like a cloudy summer sky, and they flit back and forth between my own. The smile that forms is more shy, just the corners of her lips barely turning upward. But somehow it's the most intimate smile she's ever given me.

"Who's your favorite character?" I ask after a while, when she's still staring at me and we've both sort of forgotten the episode that's playing.

"Haley. She's smart and beautiful, and she can sing." Brittany doesn't hesitate to answer, and the way her eyes widen as if she's saying so much more than simply describing a fictional character is unnerving.

I wish I could understand what she's trying to say. I wish I could know what she's thinking.

She smirks at me, takes another bite of her dessert, and turns back toward the television. I watch her a moment longer, wondering why in the hell I have the urge to feed her. The thought of me holding out a spoon full of delicious pie and creamy vanilla towards her mouth, flirting as I pretend to miss on purpose and smear it across her face, invades me without an ounce of protest.

I shake my head and focus on the show, finishing my own dessert without another glance to my left.

If I don't look at her, I can't think about her.

I laugh at the fact that that makes absolutely no sense.

I've been thinking about her since the day I met her.

* * *

I don't realize how tired I am until she's nudging me awake. I look up at the television to see the main menu of the second disc, wondering just how many episodes she's let me sleep through.

"Sorry," I mumble, unconsciously wiping my mouth to get rid of any drool I may have. It isn't until my elbow bumps into her that I notice just how close we are. I must have moved towards her in my sleep, and I'm a little embarrassed at how close my head is to practically resting in her lap.

"It's okay," she giggles. "You've had a long day." Her hand fidgets, and it looks like she might run it through my hair. Goose bumps rise at the back of my neck at the thought.

I smile up at her and move back to where I was sitting before I fell asleep, pulling my legs up to my side. I instantly feel cool at the loss of heat from her proximity. There seems to be a look of disappointment on her face when I settle further away from her, but I reason I'm probably reading her wrong.

"What time is it?" I ask through a yawn, my arms stretching above my head as I feel my body groan at the movement. I'm a lot sleepier than I thought I was.

"A little after midnight." She stretches too, and I don't miss the way her shirt rides up a little, revealing a sliver of moon-kissed skin. It looks so soft and smooth, and memories of how much of her skin I've seen flash through my mind.

I get so distracted by her body that it takes me a minute to realize what she's said. "Oh my god. How long have I been sleeping?" I don't understand why she wouldn't have woken me up, or at least left. It must have been so awkward for her to be in someone else's house and not know what to do because they fell asleep.

"For about an hour and a half. You looked so peaceful. I didn't want to disturb you. Plus, the show started getting really good," she motions to the television, which is still playing the disc menu over and over again.

I'm smiling at her for no reason at all. I don't know how someone so sweet can put up with gross old men all the time. She deserves so much more.

She deserves to be surrounded by people equally as sweet.

But then she wouldn't be here right now.

"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to fall asleep." I feel the need to apologize again. I want her to know that it had nothing to do with her. I don't want her to think that I find her company boring. That couldn't be further from the truth. I don't think Brittany could ever be boring.

"Santana, really. It's okay," she reaches out and places her hand on mine.

I feel burned. Like her innocent and gentle touch ignites a fire in me that has me fighting the urge to turn my hand over and thread my fingers between hers.

"Okay." I don't feel like I can say much else without flames scorching my words, and morphing them into things I'm not ready to say or understand. I don't know how to explain how I feel, or how she makes me feel. I don't know what it means, nor do I want to know.

The only thing I do know is that I don't want her to leave. Which is absurd.

But I'm asking her to stay before I have time to tell myself not to. "You're welcome to stay if you don't want to go home this late." My reason is ridiculous because she's gone home much later than this after work. "Plus you've been drinking," I add, because I genuinely don't want her driving if she's had too much. But mostly I want to stop sounding like a complete idiot around her.

She seems to think about it for a second, but then nods her head.

I normally would never give someone the option of sharing my bed with me. I like being able to spread out while I sleep, and I have a guest room for a reason.

But I find myself asking which she'd prefer, almost hoping she won't choose the other bedroom.

She looks at me, turning until she's fully facing me. Her eyes drop to my lips, and then gradually climb back to my eyes. I shudder. Maybe she should sleep in a different bed.

"I think after you described how awesome your bed is earlier, I might just have to see for myself." Her hand squeezes mine before she retracts it, and I almost chase after it, the desire to hold her hand coursing through my veins like lava.

I clamp down on the sofa cushion instead.

I nod, afraid of what will come out if I try to speak. I turn the tv off and take our dishes to the sink to be cleaned up in the morning. She follows close behind as we walk upstairs, and I close the bedroom door behind us out of habit. I don't like sleeping with it open, but for some reason it feels like I've suggested something I didn't mean to.

I show her my face wash just in case she wants to use it, and offer her a spare toothbrush. While she's in the bathroom, I change into a sleep shirt and pajama shorts, and pull out an extra pair for her.

When she comes out, I hand her the clothes for her to borrow, and she changes while I'm in the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth, smiling at how she's placed the spare I gave her in the holder by the sink.

She's sitting at the foot of the bed when I come out, her hands in her lap. The shirt I gave her is a little small and exposes some of her stomach, and the shorts barely cover the tops of her thighs. But she doesn't seem to mind. "I wasn't sure which side of the bed you sleep on," she mumbles softly as she looks up at me.

_I'll sleep wherever as long as you're comfortable_, I think.

"The side closest to the door," I say instead.

She nods, but waits for me to pull back the covers before she moves. She lays down on her side facing me, her hand tucked under the pillow beneath her head. I turn to lay on my side as well, draping the blankets over us as she looks at me with a warm smile. Her eyes keep ghosting over my lips, and my stomach twists with the possibility of her wanting to kiss me.

I close my eyes to get rid of the thought and the fact that my mind is playing tricks on me.

She doesn't want to kiss me. I don't know that I even want to kiss her.

That may or may not be a lie.

Friends can want to kiss each other right?

"What's wrong?" Her voice slips through my mind's argument, and I realize my eyes are still closed. I open them to find her looking at me with mild concern. "You look like you're thinking too hard. You're too pretty to have so much worry written on your face," she breathes and reaches forward. Before I know what's happening, her finger is gliding over my brow, soothing each wrinkle like a magic eraser. I feel my face relax with each swipe of the pad of her finger as she does it a few times.

I swallow. Her touch and the way she tells me I'm pretty makes my head spin. I feel dizzy and like I'm about to fall over. Which makes no sense because I'm already laying down.

Her eyes are still bright and gentle, as if even the tiniest change in them will cause me to break. She looks at me and treats me like I'm so fragile, and I find myself wanting her in ways I've never wanted anyone before. I want her to hold me, to comfort me, to protect me. And more than anything, I want to do the same for her.

"What happened with you and your boyfriend?" I blurt, and it's not really what I mean to say. But I'm waiting anxiously for her answer as I try to sort through my thoughts.

She looks startled at my question, like she didn't expect it at all. Which is understandable because I didn't expect to ask it.

"I mean, you don't have to tell me," I add when she still hasn't said anything. Her finger has stopped moving over my brow, and her hand now rests against my cheek, almost as if she's cupping it tenderly and cradling it like it's made of glass. She studies me, ocean blue washing over every part of my face, before her hand retreats back to her side of the bed.

"It didn't work out," she barely whispers. It's so soft and quiet, like the call of a baby animal that doesn't want to alert itself to a predator.

She looks so small now, and the urge to hold her is devastating.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I murmur across the valley of bed between us. She smiles at me, but her cheeks don't meet her eyes. It's a sad smile, the first I've seen on her, and I know not to push the issue.

I'll do anything to make sure she's never sad.

My eyes flutter close and I hear her hum. I want to look at her, to watch her as she falls asleep, but I can't find the energy to open them. The rustle of blankets and the feel of the bed dipping closer to me is the last thing I notice before I'm slipping into unconsciousness, my mind focused on cobalt eyes and milky skin.

* * *

I'm woken up by the sound of the door slamming closed, and I jolt up in bed. I look over and find it empty, and notice Brittany has folded the clothes she wore to bed and laid them on the floor next to my nightstand. I hear footsteps coming up the stairs, and I grab my blankets to cover me further. If Brittany left and didn't lock the door, there's no telling who's in my house right now.

My bedroom door creaks open and I'm about to scream when Quinn's sneaky face pops through the crack. "Morning sleeping beauty," she smirks when she notices I'm awake. She plops down on the bed next to me, looking at me like I'm crazy for still being in bed in the first place.

"What time is it?" I rub at my eyes, glancing around my room to see if there's any sign as to where Brittany could be. I'm a little upset that she would just leave without saying goodbye, but I don't want to show it because I don't want to put up with Quinn's twenty questions.

"Almost eleven. You were supposed to be in the studio a half hour ago, so Sam sent me over to check on you. Late night last night?" she asks with the raise of her eyebrow.

"Shit," I curse, just now realizing I forgot to set my alarm before I fell asleep. I was so wrapped up in Brittany that I completely pushed everything else out of my mind. "I bet Sam's pissed," I complain as I hurry out of bed and to the bathroom. I keep the door open so Quinn can still talk to me as I get ready. There's no time for a shower, so I run my hands through my hair and pull it into a loose ponytail.

"Nah, he was just concerned. It's not like you to be late for things," she calls from my room as I'm brushing my teeth. I feel terrible and know that it's costing money to pay for studio time and not be in there.

I rush to put on a pair of jeans and pull on a sweatshirt today. There's no reason to dress up if I'm only going into the studio.

"What did you do last night?" Quinn asks as she follows me back downstairs. She immediately notices the plates in the sink when I go to the kitchen to make a quick cup of coffee. "Looks like you had some company," she teases with a curl of her lips.

"Uh, yeah. I had a friend over to just chill and watch tv." I busy myself with the coffee maker, hoping Quinn will drop it. I don't know what to say about Brittany, and I know Quinn will see through me if I start stuttering.

But I should know better than to assume Quinn will drop it.

"What friend?" she asks, and I can't tell if she's hurt she wasn't invited, or because I simply didn't tell her about my plans.

"Brittany. You don't know her," I tell her as I pour the fresh brewed coffee into one of my travel mugs.

"Oh," she comments, and there's sadness in her voice.

Now I know she's upset.

"Come on Q, don't be like that," I stress. I don't need her acting like I've just announced were no longer friends just because I was hanging out with someone else. I know Quinn has jealousy issues, but seriously, she has nothing to worry about.

She'll always be my best friend. She's like my sister. And Brittany is my –

I shake my head before I can finish that thought. Brittany is my friend. That's it, nothing more.

"When will I get to meet this new friend of yours?" she pouts.

"When you stop acting like a child," I joke back. She fake laughs and swats at my arm. "Are you coming with?" I ask as I make my way towards the front door.

"Sure," she answers. "And you can tell me all about your new friend on the drive over," she smirks and I roll my eyes.

She really is a kid sometimes. But I wouldn't trade her for anyone else. Even if they were a little less mean. Quinn's snarky personality is one of her best qualities.

And maybe it would be good to talk to Quinn about Brittany. Maybe telling her how I feel and how confused I am will be beneficial. Maybe she'll be able to help me figure things out.

Quinn offers to drive and while I'm sitting in the passenger seat I look at my phone. There's a message from Brittany and I'm quick to open it, my heartbeat speeding up in excitement.

_I'm so sorry I had to leave. I didn't want to wake you so early, but I had an emergency come up. I had a really fun time last night. Thanks for inviting me Santana._

I don't like hearing she had an emergency to take care of, and I hope everything is okay. My heart hums as I read over how considerate and sweet she is, and how she didn't want to wake me up.

Doesn't she realize by now that I'd rather her wake me up?

Do I even realize that?

I guess so.

Because all I can think about is watching her as she got ready this morning and trying to calm her down in her haste.

Quinn looks over and must see me smiling at my phone cause she immediately asks what's going on.

I know I can't lie. And I know I can't keep thinking I know what's going on. I need to know if it's normal to feel this way. I need answers as to why everything Brittany does makes my heart swell and my stomach flip. I need her to tell me why all I want to do is make Brittany smile and laugh, and how there seems to be a growing urge to touch her and hold her, and maybe even kiss her.

I shouldn't want to do any of those things.

I know what they mean. I have gay friends.

But I'm not gay.

And that just makes me so confused.

I look up at Quinn and pull my lips together into a straight line. "Can we talk about it later? When we have more time," I plead. And I think she sees how serious I am because her eyes soften and the smirk that was on her face fades. She nods her head before tearing her eyes from me and turning them back to the road.

Maybe I'm just being ridiculous, and I just feel excited to be around Brittany because she's the first friend I've made in a really long time. She's the only one out of the business that I've spent time with because she treats me like a normal person. Maybe I'm just confusing general friendship for a crush because she's so sweet.

_I had fun too. Thanks for staying the night. I hope everything's okay! _I send back, putting my phone in my purse to be forgotten about until later.

Right now I need to focus on finishing this song today.

I need to focus on the lyrics and the melody, and making sure I like the finished product because today is the last day I have to work on it.

I do not need to focus on the way my bed smelled like Brittany this morning. Or the way the spare toothbrush was still in the holder next to mine.

I don't need to focus on her smile or her eyes, or the way she looked last night in my clothes.

All I know is I want more of her. More dinners. More conversations. More sleepovers. More touching. More smiling. More everything.

There's a part of me that knows I shouldn't. But I do. And I don't know whether I should have this conversation with Quinn or Brittany first.

But the thought of telling Brittany how she makes me feel scares the crap out of me. Because I'm sure she doesn't feel the same way.

Except sometimes she looks at me like she wants to kiss me. Or like I'm special and that she's so happy to be hanging out with me.

But maybe it's just my mind only seeing what it wants to see.

I close my eyes and groan, and know that Quinn must be looking at me funny. But I don't care. Because it's so obvious I care about Brittany in different ways than I care about Quinn, and I honestly have no idea what that means.

* * *

A/N: I'm really sorry, but I'll be taking a week off because I'm just a little overwhelmed with school at the moment. I appreciate your patience and understanding :) As always, I'm happy to answer questions on tumblr! Someone asked me to post the music that inspires each chapter, so I will also be posting that on my tumblr.


	6. Chapter Five

A/N: Thank you guys so much for your understanding in how busy I've been. As of right now, the plan is to update next Friday, but I will be graduating college and moving again this week, so if it doesn't happen, please just be patient :) All your reviews and messages on tumblr mean the world. Thank you! And thanks to my betas Chrissy and Bekah.

* * *

**Chapter Five – Carry Me Home Tonight**

_Los Angeles, April 2013._

* * *

"Alright, I just talked to the powers that be, and they would like to release Labyrinth as your first single next week." Sam swivels in the chair behind the soundboard, looking at me through the glass of the sound booth. I grab the bottle of water sitting on the stool next to me, my throat dry from running through a handful of takes. I know the record label is pushing to get my album finished before the tour, but there's a few songs I'm still not happy with.

I nod my head, excited to finally be releasing something after working so hard. "Sounds good," I grin, bringing the lip of the bottle to my mouth. Quinn's sitting next to Sam, watching me carefully, and I know it's because of how I acted in the car this morning.

It's making it hard to focus on each run through Sam asks me to do, and I want to ask her to leave, but I know that won't really fix anything. It's not Quinn that's distracting really. It's Brittany. It's the way I feel about Brittany. It's the way I don't know what my feelings towards Brittany mean.

Sometimes I wonder if I had known Brittany as long as I've known Quinn, would things be different? Would we have been best friends in high school, and joined the same clubs? Would we have stayed up at night talking about the cute quarterback or took turns bitching to Quinn when we got in fights?

But I don't want to do any of those things with Brittany. I want to make her laugh and smile until she pokes at my sides and says I'm the funniest person she knows, in that way that makes my skin tickle with pride. I want to drown myself in her touch, explore the dips and curves of her body like a beautiful painting. I want to kiss her, to draw sounds from her that can't be made in public.

I just want her. In ways that are definitely more than just friendship.

"Santana," Sam calls, and I snap my head up to see both of them looking at me. I wonder how long they've been staring at me like a damn puppy in the window of some pet store. "Can we run through the chorus of Black and Blue again?"

I nod my head again, taking another sip of my water. He cues up the track and I can hear it playing through my headphones. I step closer to the mic and wait for the beginning of the chorus, closing my eyes and focusing on the music floating through my ears.

But all I picture is pale skin beneath the blackness of harsh, club lights, and frilly lingerie. All I see is bright blue eyes that sparkle with tiny constellations, and tempting freckles that litter otherwise perfect skin.

I miss my cue.

I open my eyes and see them staring at me again. And I know it's going to be a long day in the studio.

* * *

Every day goes by the same way. I spend longer than I ever have going over songs, and it's clear by Sam's frustration that I'm not the only one annoyed with myself.

By the end of the week, I've somehow managed to finish two more songs. But with how much my mind has been distracted, I've also scribbled down some notes for a few new ones.

It's no surprise, really, when Sam gives me the weekend off, and I'm more than happy to spend the beginning of it holed up in my house, watching trashy television and eating take out from the sushi place that knows my order by the caller ID.

When Sunday morning barges through the slit in my curtains like an unwelcomed spotlight, I feel an itch run through me. Like I've been purposely keeping myself busy so I wouldn't think about Brittany, and now that I've had time off, the idea of seeing her sends a current to my brain, like it's telling the rest of my body it's in withdrawal of something.

She's like a drug, and somehow she's injected herself into my veins, making me addicted without even trying. And too long away from her leaves me restless and desperate to see her. Every time I see her smile, it's like another hit, a dose of a high I don't want to come down from.

I rub my eyes and turn over, trying to block the sun from telling me I need to get up and do something productive today. Maybe if I ignore it I won't feel guilty about spending an entire weekend doing absolutely nothing.

I'm just about to drift off again, cocooned under my covers like a rabbit in a burrow, when I hear the rattling of my phone against the wood of my nightstand as it vibrates. Hoping it's just a text I can ignore until later, I bury myself deeper into my blankets.

But the vibrations don't stop, and I have no legitimate excuse not to answer the phone. Or at least look at who's calling and politely decline their early morning interruption.

I pull my arm out from beneath the covers and it limply falls onto my nightstand, blindly searching for the culprit of my unreasonable annoyance. I glance at the clock and groan, the numbers staring back at me clearly stating it's more afternoon than morning.

I have to double check the caller ID to make sure I'm reading it correctly in my sleepy haze. Seeing Brittany's name makes that feeling thrum again, like I've just taken a sip of a drink, a promise of more to come.

"Hello," I sort of croak, knowing it's obvious I've just woken up. My throat is still caked in sleep, making my voice lower and raspier than usual.

"Hi," she chirps, and I want to be annoyed that she's probably been up for hours, but I just can't be. Her bubbly and animated way of speaking will always be like a glass of fine champagne, soothing away any displeasure into unscripted glee. "Please tell me you're not still in bed, sleeping beauty." Her giggle rings like a song over the nickname and I feel the fluttering drum of my heart against my ribcage.

"Maybe," I hum, stretching as a faint blush dusts across my skin.

"Santana, it's like two in the afternoon." The way she chastises me shouldn't be cute, but it is, and all it does is make my heart beat faster and my skin pink warmer.

"It's Sunday," I retort, knowing the excuse couldn't be any lamer if I tried.

"What time did you get up yesterday?" she asks, and I can hear the playfulness lace her every word. I close my eyes and picture her smile, the way her lips are probably curled and spread wide, her eyes lit with a teasing jest, as she bounces on the balls of her feet. It's so easy to see, and I wish I could witness it in person.

"That's irrelevant," I yawn, turning on my side with the phone squished between my ear and my pillow.

"Uh huh." There's still a small laugh to her voice, as if she's making fun and placating me at the same time. "So, I was wondering if you had plans tonight."

"Since it's now fact that I'm still in bed, do you really think I have plans today?" I can't suppress the need to stretch again, and the little squeal of satisfaction that escapes my lips in the process has Brittany giggling even more.

"You're too cute when you're just waking up," she comments. My blood rushes to the surface as I'm torn between feeling embarrassed for making the sound, or enamored that she finds me endearing. "Anyways, my friends and I are going dancing at a club in Weho. You should come," she tells me, the playfulness in her voice more prominent than before.

"I don't know," I whine, earning the giggle that's quickly becoming my favorite sound.

"Why?" she pouts, and I can picture the puff of her lower lip and how all it makes me want to do is kiss it away.

It's something I can't stop thinking about. I still don't know what it means exactly, but I've stopped lying to myself about wanting to do it. I feel like anyone who knows, or has met Brittany would understand.

"Because. I'm sure all your friends can dance like you, and I'm not about to be embarrassed in public." It's easy to tease her while subtly adding a compliment about how talented she is, or how pretty she is, or how funny she is. It's my way of sort of saying how I feel, but making it seem like it's not a big deal.

Which it isn't.

But if it were, she'd have to really read between the lines of what I'm saying to understand their true meanings.

"Santana, you couldn't embarrass yourself if you tried." I hear a pop of her gum, and for some reason it doesn't annoy me. I choose to ignore that. If I continue to ignore certain thoughts and feelings, they can't mean anything.

"I beg to differ. I'm just good at pretending I'm cool." Flirting with her gets easier every time we talk. She has a way of making her voice bubbly and sexy at the same time, and when it's directed at me, my body warms with renewed want for her in ways I shouldn't want her.

"Please come," she begs. "I'll save you a dance," she practically purrs.

I feel my heart beat in my stomach. I've seen Brittany dance. I've felt Brittany dance nearly on top of me. The thought of dancing with Brittany – my body doesn't know how to react. My mouth goes dry, and I can feel my cheeks color darker. I'm glad no one's around to witness it.

"Okay," I croak out, further embarrassed by the way I act around her.

The effects of her are unlike any drug I've ever tried before.

I hear her giggle again, but it's deeper and less innocent. She knows exactly what she's doing to me.

Does that mean she's purposely doing this? Flirting with me and making me feel like this because she wants this too?

Doubtful. Brittany flirts with everyone. Bridgett even said she likes everyone. I feel guilty that I've taken her friendship and morphed it into something more in my head.

"Great. I'll pick you up at nine." She's giddy and full of excitement before she hangs up, and I can't help the way I'm grinning as I pull the phone from my ear.

My cheeks are starting to ache from smiling so much whenever I'm around her. Or when she says something adorable. Or even when I just think about something she's done.

It's ridiculous.

I place my phone back on my nightstand and move to get out of bed, already hating the blast of cold that'll hit me when I pull back my covers. But I would like to go for a run and maybe try to finish writing one of my newly scribbled songs before I have to start getting ready.

* * *

I'm undressing to hop in the shower after my run when my phone goes off again, this time Quinn's name flashing up at me.

"Hey," I answer after I pull my shirt over my head.

"What are you up to?" At her question and the hopefulness in her voice, I remember that we usually hang out Sunday nights. There's a tiny pang in my chest at the fact that I forgot, but I don't want to cancel on Brittany.

There's a little prickle at the back of my mind that I'm already choosing Brittany over Quinn.

I put Quinn on speaker and go to my messages, asking Brittany if it would be okay for me to invite someone tonight. I don't know why I have the need to specify that Quinn's a friend. She answers back right away, and I'm thankful for that because Quinn's question of what our plans are for tonight echoes in my ear. "Brittany invited us to go to a club in Weho," I tell Quinn as I read over Brittany's text.

"Oh," Quinn says with a little less happiness in her voice.

"Come on Q. It'll be fun. Some drinking. Some dancing," I counter as I begin to pull on the waistband of my yoga pants. I step out of each leg before she answers with a weak okay. "Good. You'll love her," I blurt, freezing mid step toward the bathroom. I know I sound like a little boy with a crush, eager for everyone to like Brittany so there's proof that it's not my fault she's so likable. "Just come over after you shower and we can get ready together," I add, and hope it's enough to stop Quinn from suspecting anything.

I still haven't talked to her. The more I think about it, the more ridiculous I think I'm being. Brittany and I are friends who like to flirt. There's nothing wrong with that.

Do I have to tell Quinn that I want to kiss Brittany? No. I'm sure Quinn's wanted to kiss plenty of people that she hasn't told me about.

That doesn't mean I'm doing anything wrong.

"See you soon," she says before hanging up. I freeze in the middle of my room, wondering if it was a good idea to invite Quinn, knowing how good she is at reading body language. There's no way I'm going to be able to keep things a secret from her when I have such a hard time functioning like a normal human being around Brittany.

I shake my head and walk into the bathroom to turn the shower on, allowing the water to heat up as I strip off the rest of my clothes. I plug my phone into my speakers and turn on some music as I step under the spray of warm water. It rolls down my chest as I let it soak through my hair. I run my hands through damp locks, flinging it over my shoulders as droplets of water scatter along the walls of the shower.

I allow my mind to drift to images of Brittany. The flush of her cheeks and the freckles dusting across them. The draw of her pink lips, and the curve of her button nose. The blues of her eyes, and the way they shine flecks of gold in the sun. The flick of her tongue when she wets her lips in concentration. Under the disguise of a shower, I've been letting go, allowing myself to picture Brittany in ways I don't normally allow.

As the suds of my shampoo slip down my back, I let my mind wander further. The promise of dancing with Brittany leads to images of porcelain skin and perfect breasts. Of sculpted muscles and the parts of her I still haven't seen.

I can feel the need grow between my legs, and I give myself this moment to take Brittany's friendship as something more. I selfishly use her body to drive my hand to the apex of my thighs. I don't allow myself to think about reasoning or meaning. I simply give into the pure physical pull of how my body aches with need.

I don't realize how long I've allowed myself to indulge in this new fantasy until Quinn's barging through my bathroom door.

"Jesus, you take the longest showers. I know quicker church services," she rants in small disdain.

I don't think I've ever hated Quinn more than I do at this moment. I really need to take back the extra key I gave her to my house.

"Maybe you should attend longer services, because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to use God's name in vain Mary Magdalene," I bark back, annoyed that I now have to go back to reality.

I can see Quinn roll her eyes and hop onto the bathroom counter through the steam stuck to the glass panels of my shower. I don't feel the need to tell her to leave knowing she can see me, because it's nothing she hasn't seen before.

Which proves I feel differently about Brittany. Quinn and I have been in each other's naked company plenty of times, and I haven't felt even half of what I feel when I look at Brittany.

"So what's the plan for tonight?" she asks as I rinse the conditioner from my hair.

I shut off the water and open the door for my towel. She averts her eyes when I step out and don't make any moves to cover myself up.

"Brittany's gonna pick us up at nine." I drape the towel across my back and shimmy it dry. With Quinn's head still turned away, I fold the towel across my front, tucking the corner in under my armpit. "All covered Rory Gilmore," I smirk through the mirror at her as she gives me an annoyed and pointed look.

"Are you ever going to get tired of teasing me about the way I choose to live my life?" she asks with an airy annoyance.

"Maybe once you drop the whole virgin Catholic school girl act. I mean, even Rory eventually had sex, so like I guess there is hope for you." She should know by now that I don't care about her sex life, of lack there of, and that I actually find it charming that she can stick to her beliefs in spite of where we live. But every time I say something, she acts like it's the first time, offended that I would ever say such a thing.

"Santana," she whines, and I roll my eyes because she literally has no sense of humor. But I guess if the roles were reversed, and she was teasing me for liking Brittany the way that I do, I'd probably get annoyed after a while too.

"Fine, but you are dancing tonight. I don't care if I have to drag you out to the dance floor by your hair." I open my mascara and begin applying it to my upper lashes, watching through the mirror as she shakes her head at me.

"You're so dramatic, it's ridiculous." She pats my shoulder as she hops off the bathroom counter and makes her way towards my bedroom. "I'm raiding your closet," she calls, already pulling the shirt she was wearing over her head.

* * *

"Dance with me," Brittany pouts around the straw of her millionth mixed drink. The edges of her face are blurry and I can't stop smiling. I don't know how many drinks I've had, but Brittany kept handing them to me, and I kept taking them.

"ButI'mnotasgood," I slur, leaning into her side at the table we're sitting at.

"You're perfect," she smirks, and I have to stop myself from reaching out and running my finger over her lips. "Please," she begs, giving me the most adorable puppy dog pout I've ever seen. It's so unfair because I'll do anything she asks me to with that look on her face.

"Fine." I finish the drink in front of me, and she squeals before doing the same. She takes my hand and pulls me up, leading me to the dance floor without hesitation. I briefly see Quinn's raised brow out of the corner of my eye, but it doesn't register as anything I need to be wary of.

She keeps a hold of my hand and begins moving in front of me. My eyes watch every twist and roll of her hips like they did the last time she danced for me. I can feel them burning holes through the fabric of her top, remembering how her skin looks uncovered as she moves.

I know I'm not dancing with her. I'm too focused on watching her perfect her body in ways that should be illegal. I wish my mind wasn't swimming in alcohol so I could appreciate this more.

But it's obvious she's not satisfied with me just standing and letting her have all the fun. Her hands slip from mine, and she turns until she's somehow facing away from me. She's backing up into me and I have to bite down on my bottom lip hard to keep from making a sound that would definitely need an explanation I'm not sure I can give.

Her hips fit against mine, and before I know it, she's rocking against me. It makes my head spin like I've just taken five more shots. I'm positive that if I weren't drunk already, her body moving so smoothly against mine would be a special kind of alcohol. I grab onto her hips to keep from falling over with how light-headed I feel.

I see her smirk over her shoulder, and I hold her tighter, my fingers digging into the skin of her waist where her shirt has ridden up from her jeans. Now that I'm able to touch her, even though it's under the guise of dancing, I don't want to stop touching her.

Her hair cascades down her back like running water – golden waves of an angelic waterfall that seems to be one of God's personal gifts just for me. I lean forward until the scent of lavender wafting from her sunflower hair envelops me.

A new wave of dizziness overwhelms me, and I know I could get drunk off of her without even trying.

The back of her shoulders brush against my chest, and I know she hears the moan that seeps through my clenched lips. My cheeks flame. My grip on her tightens. She turns her head until I can see the profile of her face, and the look she gives me is equal parts unreadable and stimulating. I doubt it means what I take it to mean as I feel the heat of me pulse with need.

She shimmies lower, slowly dragging her butt down the front of me. Her back arches as she rises, grinding into me with no care or worry as to who is watching.

Briefly I think that I should care. That I should worry about pictures being taken or someone seeing.

But I'm too drunk and too far gone with how desperately I want Brittany to care about an audience.

When she bends forward, jutting her ass into me further, her hair drapes like curtains toward the floor, exposing the bare skin of her neck and shoulders. I have the insane urge to kiss it. To taste the sweetness and smoothness that I can only imagine emanates from her every pore.

My nails dig into her hips to stop myself from doing just that in the middle of the dance floor.

She giggles, her back curving gracefully like an elegant swan. The need to kiss her is getting harder to ignore when she lays her hands on mine and pushes them harder into her hips.

"Brittany," I hiss, trying to warn her that if she keeps doing what she's doing, I'm not going to be responsible for how I react. She leans her head back to rest against my shoulder, turning so her lips are brushing along the shell of my ear.

"Is there a problem Santana?" she purrs, and I swear I feel her tongue swipe over my skin.

"You're not playing fair," I groan as she bucks her hips against me with another perfect roll to the beat.

At my words she stills, turning her head to look at me fully. Her eyes flick over my face, and the alcohol blurring my vision makes it hard to keep up. I narrow my eyes to try and read her face, but the gesture only makes me dizzier.

She spins until she's facing me, her hands now on my hips. I must have been swaying because her hold on me makes me feel like I can stand up straight again.

"Are you feeling okay?" she asks, and I want to nod, but the thought of moving my head that quickly makes me feel a little sick. I definitely don't want to puke on Brittany, or even let her see me puke.

Maybe I just need to sit down for a little. But I don't want to sit down. I want to keep touching Brittany, and dancing with her, and kissing her.

Wait. No. We haven't kissed. I shake my head at my mixed-up thoughts.

But god I want to. My eyes fix on her lips, and I want to lean forward so badly and just kiss her.

"Santana?" My eyes snap up to hers, and I remember she had asked me a question.

"I'mnot sure," I mumble, smirking at her when she tightens her hold on me as I begin to lean to the side.

Her lips flutter into a smile, and the way she looks at me is too much. Her eyes are too soft and caring. Her smile is too adorable and perfect.

I want to tell her. I want to say how pretty she is, and how much I want to kiss her. I open my mouth to tell her this when Quinn comes up to us. She's babbling about this drunk guy at the bar that almost got in a fight with one of Brittany's friends.

Brittany sort of hands me to Quinn, and walks off with what looks like an apologetic smile. I wobble next to Quinn at the loss of Brittany's hands on my waist, and Quinn quickly fills her vacant spot. "Woah," she laughs, reaching out to help me stand still. "You want to sit down for a little?" she asks, starting to pull me off the dance floor without waiting for my answer.

I nod my head slowly, my eyes closing as the room starts to spin a little. "Imma little drunk," I slur into the crook of Quinn's neck where my head has fallen to rest as she helps me walk.

"You're also a little caught young lady," she scolds, but it doesn't really sound like she's upset. It's more like she's poking fun but I have no idea what I did wrong. I peel my cheek from her shoulder and look at her, hoping I'm conveying that I don't understand what she's talking about without having to say anything.

"Don't look at me like that," Quinn laughs again. "I'm not the one who just spent the last half hour dancing not so innocently with a friend." She says friend with a little lift to her voice that makes my eyes widen.

I don't know what to say. There's so much confusion and stuff I want to tell her, but I know I won't be able to voice it correctly right now. Not when my mind is so flustered and I can barely stand on my own, and definitely not in a room full of other people.

"Talk later," I mumble instead. She pats the back of my head in understanding and leads me to our table.

* * *

"Are you sure you can drive?" I look to Brittany across the center console of her car as she buckles herself in.

"Yeah," she smiles and looks in the backseat. I look back there too, wondering why she's so concerned about what's back there. I see Quinn getting in and laugh, almost forgetting about Quinn when Brittany offered to take me home. I'm glad Brittany remembered or Quinn would have killed me if I left her there.

Quinn looks at me funny when I mouth that I'm sorry, but I turn my attention back to Brittany. "But you've had asmuchto drink as I have," I pout, questioning why I'm so drunk and she's not.

"I think you've had a little more. Plus you're tiny," she adds, the lights inside the car turning on as she starts it. The loud music we were listening to when we arrived blares through the speakers, and I grimace as it makes my head feel fuzzier.

"But you like that I'm tiny." I know I'm not making sense, and I'm not really sure what that has to do with anything, but it feels important to say. She looks over at me and smirks, but it's her eyes that give her away. I must be really adorable right now because she's looking at me like she does when she tells me how funny I am.

It seems like she wants to reach over and touch me, or at least say something, but doesn't. Maybe it's because Quinn's in the backseat. Or maybe I'm just imagining things.

It's quiet as Brittany drives, or at least I'm quiet. I think her and Quinn talk about something, but I find that every time I try to turn and see for sure, I get dizzy and a little nauseous. So I keep my face pressed against the window and watch the city lights pass by.

I faintly hear Quinn say goodbye as Brittany drops her off at her house, and don't really remember how we get from Quinn's house to mine. I think at one point Brittany says something to me, because when I look down, I see her hand on my thigh, right above my knee.

I like it. And I wish I could feel it more than I do, since most of my body is still pretty numb from the alcohol.

She pulls into my driveway, putting her car in park and looking over at me. I know I must look ridiculous because she's trying not to laugh, but little snorts escape after a while. I turn my head, my cheek sliding off her window with a soft slurp as I open my eyes slightly to look at her.

"Whaso funny?" I ask, but it doesn't come out very clear. I don't understand how I'm still so drunk when she's so sober. "You put somefin in my drink," I pout at her, hoping my face is scowling as much as I want it to.

The roundness of her eyes gets bigger, but that stupid smirk of hers is still glaring at me, mocking me. "It's not my fault you can't handle your alcohol," she laughs, and god that sound. She could record a whole CD of just her laughing and giggling and it would be my most played album.

"I can," I sulk, because I know I can. Brittany plus alcohol must be my deadly combination though.

She gazes at me and smiles, the one that starts off small, then slowly gets bigger as she blinks and smiles with her eyes. Her eyes are like the sprinkles on top of an already incredible sundae. "I want ice cream," I grin, lifting my head completely off of her window.

"What? Santana, it's like two in the morning." She shakes her head, but she's still smiling, and god I want ice cream so bad. But she's not getting it.

She's leaning against the center console of her car, watching me, maybe waiting for me to explain. But all I want is ice cream. I really don't think I can wait another day to have some, so before I can stop myself, I'm leaning forward and pressing my lips to hers.

It's sloppy, and I get more of the corner of her mouth than her lips, but it's the best sundae I've ever had.

My mind catches up to my body, and I pull away before I can turn the kiss into something more. It's quick and friendly, and I can easily say it's just a simple goodbye kiss between friends if she asks.

"Thanks," I quickly say, pulling away until I'm reaching for the door handle of her car. I don't wait for her to say anything before I exit her car. She's probably too stunned to move. I most likely just scared her, or disgusted her, or something, because I definitely just shocked myself. I can't believe I just did that.

The chilly night air mixes with the alcohol, and the insane dizziness I feel from kissing her makes me wobbly more than I'd like right now. I'm having trouble getting to my front door. I place my free hand on my forehead, trying to steady myself and stop the ground from spinning.

But then there are warm hands at my sides, holding me up as a body is pressed against my back. "I got you," she says by my ear, and it's like she's purring, breathing her soft and caring voice into my skin like a burn.

I lean back into her, hoping I'm not too heavy because there's no way I can walk on my own when she keeps making me feel so light-headed. Nobody has ever been so willing to take care of me and look after me the way she does.

We make it to my front door, and I'm not really sure how because I didn't even know we were moving. She asks for my keys, and I think I give them to her, because soon we've enveloped in the warmth of my house.

I don't want her to leave and disappear for another week. Especially after what I just did. "Stay," I sigh when she turns me in her arms so she can lock the door. Her hands are on my ribs, holding me in front of her. I can't read her face, and I don't really try, knowing my brain tonight will just think whatever it wants to anyways.

She nods her head, and I know I'm smiling because she mirrors it. "Okay," she says, but leads me to the couch instead of my room. She must see my look of disappointment because she laughs and squeezes my shoulders once I'm sitting. "I'll be right back. I need to get my stuff from my car," she adds, and with one more reassuring squeeze she leaves.

I fall back into the cushions of my couch, feeling very sleepy. But I want to stay awake. I want to kiss Brittany again. I lift my hand to my mouth, still stunned that I actually kissed her.

What is she thinking about it? Did it bother her? Did it freak her out? Did she like it? Does she want me to do it again?

She's back in front of me before I can think about it more, and I jump a little when she appears since I didn't hear the door shut. "You okay?" she asks with a cock of her head, like a puppy trying to gauge its owner's request. She kneels in front of me and places her hands on my knees.

"Yeah," I mumble. The tip of her nose is painted pink, and I reach out to tap it. "You look like a clown," I laugh, tapping her nose again when she giggles at me.

"It's cold outside silly," she protests with a cute little pout. My finger drops to trace over the puff of her lips before I can think about it. She lets out a sigh and I can feel the warm dampness blow across the tip of my finger. "Santana," she breathes, drawing it out in a sort of unsure whine.

"You're pretty," I whisper, drawing my finger across her bottom lip. I watch as it indents beneath my touch while my finger rolls from one corner of her mouth to the other. There's a tiny freckle that sits on top of her upper lip, and it's the most tantalizing thing I've ever seen. I want to kiss it, swipe my tongue across it.

I lick my lips at the thought.

"And you're drunk," she laughs out in a small breath. It seems like she may be a little flustered from my touch by the way her cheeks have pinked a little, and the way her breathing has picked up its pace.

I try to shake my head, to let her know that I think she's pretty even when I'm not drunk, but the room's still spinning and I really don't want to be sick.

"Can we go to bed?" I ask. She squeezes my knees with a small smile and stands up, holding out her hands for me. She helps me up, and steadies me when I begin to fall to the side. "I'm sorry," I mumble as my head falls to her shoulder. She wraps an arm around my waist and beings walking me to the stairs.

"For what?"

I can feel her head turn to look at me, but I keep my eyes closed. "For ruining tonight." I'm not sure whether I'm apologizing for being so drunk or for kissing her. I don't think it really matters.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she breathes, and it's so soothing and caring that I can't help the way my body falls into her more. It's like I crave her in ways I don't understand. I want to be around her all the time. I want to hear her speak and tell me stories, even hear her tell me about her cat. I want to see her smile and observe the way the sun reflects in her eyes. I want to watch her dance and tell her all the time how beautiful she is.

It's overwhelming, and it just makes me dizzier.

"You're too sweet," I say instead, letting out a grunt when I miss a step. But her hands on me are strong, and soon she's leading us into my room. She sets me down on my bed, and I instantly fall back, my body too heavy to hold up on my own.

"What do you want to sleep in?" she asks, already fiddling with the straps of my heels. She slips them off my feet, and I hear them thud on the carpet somewhere.

"Second drawer," I whisper slowly, pointing at my dresser in the corner of my room. I feel her walk away, and then I hear the creak of a drawer opening. "Do you want shorts too?" she calls from across the room.

"No," I grumble. I just want these tight clothes off, and a baggy t-shirt in their place, so I can get under the covers and go to sleep.

No wait. I want to get under the covers and look at Brittany, and touch Brittany, and kiss Brittany.

She's back by my side, and I peek open my eyes when she hasn't said or done anything. She's holding the shirt in her hand, but her eyes seem shy as she looks down at me. "Do you need some help?"

I nod, my stomach flipping in anticipation. If I were less drunk, I'm sure I would be more hesitant for her to undress me, but right now it's all I want. I watch as she bends down, her fingers reaching for the button of my jeans. Her knuckles brush over my belly, and I can't help it when I squirm beneath her.

"Ticklish?" she breathes with a tiny smirk.

"Yeah." I watch her eyes as she unzips my jeans and begins to pull them down my legs. I lift my butt to help, but the graze of her fingers along my skin as she moves makes it hard for me to concentrate on helping her. I'm thankful I wore nice underwear tonight when she pulls my jeans completely off and tosses them to the ground.

"You need to sit up," she instructs, her hands now on my arms as she helps me up. She seems to hesitate, and there's a look in her eyes I've never seen. But then she's gripping the hem of my shirt and lifting. I hold my hands up so she can pull it over my head.

I shiver, realizing how very little clothing I'm now wearing. She doesn't linger though, and easily slips the t-shirt on to cover me back up. I reach behind me and under the shirt to unclasp my bra, pulling the straps down my arms and throwing it across the room. My eyes never leave hers in the process, and I shiver again at the way she's looking at me. It's both intense and timid, but her eyes are the darkest shade of blue I've even seen them be.

I watch as her eyes drop to look at my shirt-covered chest. I almost want to tease her and ask if she sees something she likes, but when she licks her lips and slowly brings her eyes back to mine, I lose the ability to flirt with her. She makes me lose all confidence sometimes, that I tend to just stop and stare at her.

"Can I borrow some clothes?" she asks, her hand coming up to remove the bobby pins from my hair.

_You can sleep naked_, I think, and I'm sure I'm smirking up at her because she's doing that thing again, where she cocks her head and looks at me like I'm the most interesting person. "Yeah," I say when she smiles down at me. I kind of like seeing her in my clothes anyways.

I scoot my butt up the bed and try to pull down the covers when she walks away to get something to sleep in. It's weird that I don't mind her going through my stuff, or that I trust her so completely while I'm so drunk, but I don't think Brittany could hurt me if she tried. She's just too kind and sweet to me. She makes me feel safe.

I nestle under the covers and open my eyes to find where Brittany is. Her back is to me, and she's wearing nothing but underwear. The dip of her spine along the expanse of her back makes my mouth dry. When she leans forward to retrieve a shirt, I can see the sides of her breasts, and I look away, embarrassed that I'm ogling her without her permission. I don't want to take advantage of her when she's being so nice to me.

She pulls the shirt over her head and pads back to the bed, slipping under the covers next to me. "Hi," she smiles, her body moving beneath my comforter in an exaggerated gesture of trying to get comfortable.

"Hey." I can't help but grin back, subconsciously shifting closer to the center of the bed. Her eyes bounce over the features of my face, and I wish I could see what she sees. Her hand comes up and traces over my brow, dropping to draw burning patterns into my cheek like invisible tattoos. The blues of her eyes are scrutinizing and careful as she reads over the parts she outlines with her finger.

My eyes flutter closed at how comfortable I feel, how gentle and reverent she's being. I wish I were less drunk so I could fully enjoy it. I want her to talk to me, about everything and nothing. I just want to listen to her voice as I fall asleep.

"Can you tell me a story?" I breathe as her exploring finger drags along my jaw.

I open my eyes when she doesn't say anything. I squint against the darkness, finding the dim light reflected in her eyes as she stares back at me. "What kind of story?" she whispers, drawing her finger down my chin and back up.

"Anything." I close my eyes again, too content and happy to be bothered to fight how tired I am. Her touch is so soothing, like the smell of lavender, or the feel of warm cotton, or the kiss of radiant sun. I haven't been this relaxed in years, her presence better than any massage I've ever paid for.

She sidles closer and takes in a tiny breath. "When I was little, my mom worked a lot of nights, so it was my dad who was responsible for getting us to bed and stuff." I want to question what she means by us, but my mouth seems to be too tired because it doesn't move. "One night, I begged him to watch a movie with me, a scary one. And the movie he chose was Child's Play."

I think I frown or scowl because she laughs and swipes at the wrinkles on my forehead.

"I was really excited at first because what child wouldn't like a movie about their doll coming to life. But unfortunately I quickly found out that it was more like Toy Story from Hell."

I feel the bed shake a little at her shudder, and I wish I had more control over my body right now because I want to wrap my arms around her. But again I don't move or say anything, and her voice begins to get further away, like I'm going under water and she's speaking to me from above the surface.

"I remember throwing away all my dolls after that, and crying when I got a birthday card a few years later with a doll on it. My mom…"

Her voice fades away as the heaviness in my body takes over, and even though I want to fight to listen to her longer, I'm just too tired

* * *

I think I hear the faint ring of an alarm, and I stir into consciousness unwillingly. It's shut off before I can make my annoyance known, but the pounding in my head is already threatening to break the sides of my skull. I groan, lifting my hands to press against my temples.

"Aww," I hear, and I snap my eyes open at the sound. But the brightness that invades my eyes is too harsh, and I quickly close them again. "That bad, huh?" The night before comes into a blurry focus, and I know there's no need to be worried about a stranger in my bed. I remember the way Brittany had taken care of me, and I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips.

I feel the bed dip closer to me, and then I feel the swell and press of lips against my forehead, like a kiss from the softest pillow. I would be lying if I said it didn't help my head feel better, because it soothes away the pain like ripples in a pond.

I sigh, curling into her touch as I let Brittany continue taking care of me. She pulls back and wraps her arm around me, pulling me into her. I nestle into the crook of her neck, her hand running up and down my back like she's physically trying to take away my hangover.

"I'm sorry about last night," I mumble against her. I can feel the brush of her skin over my lips as I speak, and I have to fight the urge to feel it fully with needy and desperate kisses.

I freeze. I kissed her. Last night, I kissed her.

The memory is fuzzy at best, but I remember. I remember leaning toward her and just kissing her, and god I'm not sure whether I'm flustered at what I did, or how badly I want to do it again.

She must feel the rigidness in my body and how I tense up, because she pulls me against her tighter, whispering into the top of my head. "Like I said last night, you have nothing to be sorry for." One of her hands comes up and starts combing through my hair, pulling the tension from my body with each careful stroke. "I've had my fair share of drunken nights," she adds. Even though I know that everyone's had nights where they've embarrassed themselves with the help of alcohol, it's somehow comforting coming from her.

I close my eyes and let myself relax completely in her arms. I'm not sure whether I should talk about the kiss, or just pretend I don't remember it happening. Maybe I should just wait to see if she brings it up.

Right now, the only thing I want to do is enjoy being held by her as the first signs of morning peek into my room. I want to pull back and look at her, to see the way the early morning sun plays over her skin like watercolors, painting her in faded reds and yellows. I didn't get to see her in the morning the last time she stayed over, and I hate that I'm missing my second opportunity, but I just can't unwrap myself from her.

"I'm glad you're here this morning," I whisper, nuzzling into her further. I know it's a break in the way I've been trying to keep my feelings for her a secret, but I can't help the pure honesty and slight vulnerability when she makes me feel so comfortable and safe.

"Me too," she admits, and I hope she can't feel the way my heart quickens.

"Why'd you have to leave so early last time?" I ask, my hand tentatively coming up and resting at the small of her back. I'm not sure if me touching her makes the moment too intimate when all she's trying to do is comfort me during my hangover.

But she doesn't seem to mind, her fingers continuing to run through my hair. "My mom called," she answers, and I feel her lay her cheek over the top of my head. It's obvious now that we're cuddling, and I try not to read into things too much. I know Brittany's a touchy person, and maybe this is just normal for her and her friends. I don't want to overanalyze anything, and once again take her friendship to mean something else.

So I focus on the conversation instead, and not the way she's making me feel like warm plastic melting under her touch. "Oh, is everything okay? I didn't know she moved to California with you." My fingers start drawing into her shirt, playing with the hem of it until they accidentally scrape against the soft dip of her lower back.

I feel her chest expand and hear her let out a tiny gasp at my touch, and I freeze, wondering if I've went too far.

But she releases another breath, and continues playing with my hair. "No, she's still in Pennsylvania," she says, her voice a little quieter than it was before. "She called because it was my sister's birthday and she was upset." Brittany's fingers scratch against my scalp, and I wish I could see her face so I could read her expressions between the words she's saying. Why would her mom be upset because of that? And why would Brittany consider that to be an emergency?

Before I can ask, Brittany's phone alarm goes off again, and she untangles herself from me to retrieve it from my nightstand. She successfully turns the offending sound off, but doesn't make any movement to settle back into our previous position.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go. I have an early shift at work tonight." She turns back to look at me, her eyes softening at the look of disappointment I'm sure is written all over my face. "Will you be okay?"

I'm confused at what she means, but the way she brushes the hair from my clammy face clues me in to what she's talking about. She's asking if I'll be okay to take care of myself during my hangover, and I nod my head as more disappointment fills me.

She doesn't understand why I don't want her to leave, or why I don't like her talking about her job. She still hasn't given me an answer about my offer, and rehearsals for the tour start in two weeks. But I don't know how to voice any of this, so I stay silent and watch her. I'll be okay with my hangover, but I don't think I'll be okay with how much I don't want her to leave right now.

"I had a lot of fun last night," she smiles, then turns and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The blankets fall to wrap around her waist as she stretches her arms above her head. Her back cracks as it arcs, her shoulders rippling beneath the shirt she's wearing. She gets up, and I have to suppress the sound that's threatening to come out of my mouth when I see that she's only wearing underwear from the waist down. The sides of her butt overflow the material, and I have to turn away, my body growing impossibly hot.

I can see her change back into the clothes she wore last night out of the corner of my eye. I pull the covers up to my chin, snuggling into the warmth it provides now that my bed feels too big all of a sudden without Brittany in it.

Once she's changed, she turns back to face me, pulling her hair loose from where it had tucked beneath the collar of her shirt. "I forgot to tell you this last night, but Lord Tubbington says Princess Peach says hi," she smirks with a spark to her eyes.

I roll my eyes with a tiny scoff, but can't hold back the grin that overtakes my face. "I'm not getting a cat, Brittany."

She laughs as she looks up from pulling on her shoes. "I think a cat would be nice for you." She can't seem to stop the hopeful excitement that rings loud in her voice.

"The poor thing would hate me. I'm hardly home, and I don't know how I feel about sharing my space with someone else," I rant from where I'm laying. Her eyebrows shoot up in a challenging way, smirking at me from where she's standing.

"You don't seem to mind sharing your space with me," she fires back, and I instantly feel my cheeks flare red. I bite down on my tongue to prevent myself from saying anything stupid, and choose to burrow deeper into my blankets, hoping she doesn't see the deep blush that's radiating from my skin.

She does though, because her smile expands and amplifies until she's practically laughing at me. But she holds it back, as if she's making sure I know she's not actually poking fun at me.

"I'll call you later," she purrs, and before I can stop her she's out of my room. I hear the front door close behind her, and I sigh, flipping onto my back to stare up at my ceiling.

It's true. Everything she said is true. I don't mind having her here, in my bed, on my couch, eating with me at my kitchen table. But the thought of doing all of that with someone else doesn't appeal to me as much.

I know I'm screwed. I know that my feelings for Brittany are way beyond friendship, and now they're certainly beyond a flattering crush.

I know I like Brittany in the same way I liked my old boyfriends, if not more.

And now I know it's really time to talk to Quinn.


	7. Chapter Six

A/N: Thank you to all of you! And special thanks to Chrissy and Bekah. Oh, I just got a full time job, so I'm going to continue to try and update every Friday, but it might turn into every other Friday. I will do my best to keep them regular though! Thank you for understanding. You guys are the bees knees :)

* * *

**Chapter Six – And Now My Heart Stumbles On Things I Don't Know**

_Los Angeles, May 2013._

* * *

Sam calls to tell me that rehearsals are starting next week, and that I should be prepared for the rigorous dancing the choreographer has made to go along with some of the tracks. "It's going to be fun watching you try to not stumble over your two left feet," he chuckles, and I wish I was standing next to him so I could punch him in the arm.

"I do not have two left feet, you ass," I argue back. The pen I've been holding falls to the notebook in front of me, random snippets of lyrics scribbled over the page. "At least I don't have only one move that looks like a gassy penguin trying to seduce a mate." I snarl with absolutely no real rage or irritation.

He laughs through the phone, and I sort of hate it when he doesn't take my rants seriously. He could at least pretend he gets slightly offended.

"But speaking of dancing," I begin, a little hesitant. He hears it and the laughter fades from his tongue, waiting for me to continue. "I may have asked a friend to dance back up on tour. Is that okay?" I don't realize I'm holding my breath waiting for his answer until he lets out a soft chuckle, and I feel myself breathe out.

"Santana, you're the star of the show. You can do whatever you want," he says, but then quickly adds. "Well not whatever you want, but I hardly think knowing one of your dancers ahead of time will put a damper on the production of the show."

"Well she hasn't said yes yet, but I'm hoping to convince her soon." I try to think of reasons why Brittany wouldn't want to do this, especially now that we've hung out a lot more, but I can't come up with any. Maybe she's just worried she makes more money at her current job. Maybe if I offer her more she'll want to do it. But I don't want her to think I'm bribing her or that I'm just paying for her services. I want her to agree to do it simply because I want her.

"Is she someone I know?" he asks, and I feel my stomach tighten automatically. Of course Sam knows Brittany, and I can't believe I forgot that he does. I feel embarrassment creep at the surface of my skin, and hope that when I answer him my voice won't shake like I know it wants to.

"Um, yeah. You do." I take a deep breath, and pray that Sam won't be upset that I've kept this from him. "We met her the same night actually." I gulp back a ragged breath, and I can practically see the look he gets when he's trying to think really hard. It makes me smile and relax a little. I know Sam isn't the type of person to react poorly to this, so I collect myself and tell him the truth. "Remember the night you took me to that strip club? Well I've sort of become friends with that one dancer, Lily. Well her real name's Brittany actually."

"Seriously?" he says in response, and it's not the least bit malicious or judgmental. "That's awesome."

I grin at his sincerity and almost child-like way of accepting almost anything. The thought of how him and Brittany would make really good friends flashes through my mind, and it should be scary how well Brittany fits into my life, but it isn't.

I don't let myself think about that too much, knowing it will only make my heart and stomach twist and coil with things I'm still not ready to think about.

There's a knock at my door, and my stomach drops, all my nerves returning instantly. I know who it is, and I know why they're here.

"Hey Sam, I've gotta go." I hope the complete panic isn't heard in my voice. He says a sweet goodbye before hanging up, and I wonder for a second why I wanted to do this in the first place.

My hands are already sweaty, and I wipe them over my pants before getting up from the kitchen table to answer the door. I don't know why she hasn't let herself in, but when I open the door to find Quinn standing there in a sweater dress and tights, a frilly scarf tucked under her chin, I smile at the way she looks both agitated that she had to wait for me, and satisfied that she actually listened to my request to not come barging into my house.

"You do realize it's May now," I grin at her, mocking the way she's dressed like it's the middle of winter instead of almost summer.

"Maybe you should tell Mother Nature that because I'm freaking cold," she whines, pushing past me and into my house. She plops down on my couch, unwrapping the scarf from around her neck, her blonde hair sticking up from the static the action produces. She ruffles her hands through it, smoothing it down as she makes herself at home, looking at me like I've forgotten something.

"What?" I huff, watching her slip off her shoes and pull her feet up onto the couch.

"Where's the coffee?" she asks expectantly, like I should have known to have a cup ready for her before she even got here.

"Oh I'm sorry princess. Coming right up," I sneer through a smirk, adding a curtsy for the hell of it.

"Thank you," she smiles before I retreat to the kitchen, starting the coffee maker as I go back to the table and close my notebook of unfinished songs.

I add sugar and the creamer I know she likes, pouring myself a mug as well, then join her on the couch. She takes a sip, humming in satisfaction, and starts telling me about her new secretary, and how he answers the phone like he's just finished having sex.

"Maybe he has. Maybe he jerks off at his desk thinking about how hot his boss is," I smirk, lifting my foot and tapping at her thigh.

She grimaces, rolling her eyes as she swats at my foot. "That's disgusting."

"Just because you refuse to play with yourself, doesn't mean the rest of the world hasn't figured out how amazing it is." I poke at her again with my foot, but she's quick to swat it away again, adding a little pinch to my big toe in the process.

"Why do you always have to be so crude Santana?"

"Born this way I guess." I shrug my shoulders with another playful smirk, before she leans forward and grabs the remote. The dull sound of the television is a nice distraction, and I know she's waiting for me to tell her why I invited her over.

As the second round of commercials begins, I know I can't put it off much longer. Quinn can only be patient for so long, and the huff she lets out is a good indication that her patience is beginning to run thin.

I gaze over at her, hoping I can do this without completely embarrassing myself. "Can we talk?" I focus my attention on my hands, pinching the webbing next to my thumb. I'm nervous, and I don't want to be, but my stomach won't stop feeling like it's free falling to the ground.

"Is it about the way alcohol apparently turns you into a stripper?" Her tone is playful and teasing, but I can't help the way I flinch at the word.

"I may have been drunk, but I know I didn't take my clothes off," I fire back, purposely leaving out the fact that I couldn't even undress myself without Brittany's help.

"True, but you were definitely dancing like one." She laughs, poking at my side.

"Q, I'm being serious," I sigh, pinching at my skin again to try and calm down. Her joking chuckle fades, her eyes searching mine as if she's making sure I'm being serious.

"Okay," she breathes, nodding her head as she turns to face me completely. "Sorry." She reaches forward and places her hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. "What's going on?"

My eyes drop to my lap at her sincerity, and my stomach feels like it's free falling again. What if she laughs at me and says I'm being silly for thinking that I like Brittany as more than a friend? Or worse, what if she thinks it's wrong? I've met her parents. I've been to church with her and her family. I've been taught the same beliefs as her, but her parents have always been stricter about it.

"Hey," she whispers, running her hand up and down my leg, like she's soothing my worries like the wrinkles in my jeans. "Talk to me," she says with a soft plea. I think she's trying to be as calm and quiet as possible, to either prevent herself from scaring me away, or to show that she really does care.

"I've been…recently…" I close my mouth with a lick of my lips, swallowing the saliva that has dried to the insides of my cheeks. "Have you ever liked someone, but felt confused by how you felt?" I ask, hoping that maybe I can get some answers without actually telling her.

Hey eyes shift as if she's now the one unsure, the color in her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. "Hasn't everyone?" she questions with a little uneasiness.

That doesn't really help. She must see defeat or disappointment on my face, because she softens again, squeezing at my leg.

"What's going on, S?" You know you can tell me, whatever it is."

I nod my head, letting out a tired breath of air. "I think I like someone," I breathe out in one long sigh. I let my gaze linger on my nervous hands for a moment before slowly dragging them up to meet hers.

"You think?" She looks at me with a raise of her eyebrow, her hand still firm on my leg.

I nod again. "It's complicated."

"Okay," she draws out. "What kind of complication are we talking about? Complicated as in he's married with kids? Complicated as in he's a criminal and currently serving five years in prison? Or complicated as in he's part of the industry too?"

I take a deep breath and shake my head. Part of me wants to smile at how dramatic she's being, but the nerves of what I'm about to say take over and prevent me from acknowledging her. "Complicated as in he's a she." I clench my hands together, holding my breath as I wait for Quinn to respond.

Her pupils are wide, and the sliver of hazel around them is wild, like a stormy sea. Her lips are pressed together, and it looks like maybe she's waiting for me to say I'm joking. I offer a small smirk to let her know I'm being serious, squeezing my hands together, my heart pounding in my ears. I can't tell what she's thinking by the look on her face, and it's making me even more nervous.

"Q, I'm gonna need you to say something before I internally combust," I sputter out. I can hear the shake in my voice and wince at how worried I am for her response.

"Okay, sorry. I just…I don't want to say the wrong thing." Her eyes soften when she must realize how nervous I am, and her hand tightens on my leg.

I let out a long, deep sigh, my eyes dropping from her gaze. There shouldn't be a wrong thing to say to this.

"Wait, I didn't mean it like that," she blurts as she scoots closer to me on the couch. Her other hand comes up to my shoulder, squeezing it softly. "I just…okay…explain how you're feeling so I can understand."

I groan, flinching at her words. "Q, I don't want a religious lecture here about how –"

"See I'm not wording this right." She draws in a breath and waits. My eyes slowly roll up to meet hers and she offers me a warm and gentle smile. "I mean, I want to understand so I can help. Not to give you a lecture about how what you're feeling is abnormal or wrong. Because you may be a bitch sometimes, but there's nothing wrong with you," she chuckles a little, but there's only true concern behind it.

I breathe out, a heaviness lifting from my body as I allow myself to relax slightly. "I don't know, that's the problem. I feel so confused."

"Okay. I think that's understandable. I think confusion is a pretty normal response." Her hand drops from my shoulder, pulling my hands between both of hers, and cradling it on my lap.

"I just, I like her. I don't know how to explain it. When I think about her my stomach feels like it's being tickled from the inside out."

"I think those would be called butterflies," she grins and squeezes my hand. I feel my cheeks warm as I try to reciprocate with a bashful and hesitant smile. "Have you, um, have you told her how you feel?"

I shake my head. I can feel my face growing very hot. "No, but I may have kissed her while I was drunk."

"May have?" she instantly teases, then her eyes go wide and her mouth opens in understanding. "Brittany," she breathes in mild shock. I offer a faint smile before nodding my head. "I knew there was something different between you two, but I didn't know you liked her like that."

"Well it's not like I set out to like her. It just sort of happened." I laugh a little. I'm sure I blush deeper as I think about her, and I'm sure Quinn can see it written all over my face.

"Oh sweetie, you really, really like her." It's a little teasing, but sweet, and I feel the last bit of nerves and tension evaporate from the room. "Well for what it's worth, I think she feels the same about you. You should have seen the way she was looking at you the other night. Plus, when you went to the bathroom at one point, she was worried about how you were feeling."

My heart flutters at this new information, and it's unnerving how much more I like Brittany with each new thing I learn about her.

Quinn stares at me, a knowing and gentle smile curving along her lips. "Is this why you've been so distracted lately?"

"Maybe," I grin, and am thoroughly thankful I don't blush too much, or else my skin would be the darkest shade of red by now. My hands come up to cover my face in embarrassment at how obviously enamored I am by Brittany. "What am I going to do?" I mumble into my palms.

She laughs at me, light and airy. "How the hell should I know?" I can't help but chuckle with her. "And I know you don't want to hear this, but with your career, exploring this will be trickier than if someone out of the limelight was going through the same thing."

Her admission sends a chill through me, fearful understanding washing over me as she finishes. It's true. Having a relationship period is hard. But trying to figure things out with Brittany with paparazzi and gossip magazines is going to make things so much worse. I feel my face fall at the realization that this is way more complicated than I would like it to be.

"Hey," she says softly, taking my hand between hers again. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't try. It just means you need to be extra careful with what you do in public," she reassures me, her thumb stroking along the bone in my wrist.

"I asked her to come on tour with me," I say before I can stop myself. Quinn lifts her eyebrow in that perfected arc she learned a long time ago. "She's a dancer, so I offered her a job to dance back up on tour," I explain, but purposely leaving out how exactly I know Brittany is a dancer.

"Well that was bold of you," she smirks as she shakes her head. "You've fallen hard, haven't you?" It's not judgmental, just observant, and it's weird seeing this through someone else's perspective.

"I've never felt this way before," I admit in a quiet breath of vulnerability. "She makes me happier than I've been in a long time. She makes me feel special and normal, which is refreshing considering my job. I may be confused by what this all means exactly, but I can't deny the way she makes me feel." My voice drops to more of a hush as I finish, now a little embarrassed by how much I've said about how I feel.

Quinn looks at me like I've just said I rescued a million puppies or some shit, and I know she'll use this against me one day when we're joking around.

"Stop looking at me like that," I scowl, my walls back up after I realize how weak I've been through this whole conversation. I don't like people seeing me like this, even Quinn.

"How am I looking at you?" she lets out a small laugh.

Before I can respond, my phone goes off with a new text message. Both of us look down at the illuminated screen, Brittany's name flashing up at us from the coffee table. Quinn gives me a knowing smirk as I pick up my phone and unlock it.

_Someone would like to say hello._ The message reads. Attached is a picture of Princess Peach cradled in Brittany's arms against her chest. I smile, letting out a small chuckle at Brittany's not so subtle hints.

"You're blushing. Did she send you a naked picture or something, cause that would be a dead giveaway of how she feels. Unless she doesn't mind people seeing her naked," Quinn rants, and my head is spinning from all the things she's saying.

"First, I'm not blushing. Second, stop it. It's a picture of a cat she wants me to adopt." I manage to roll my eyes before she swats at my arm.

"A cat? Are you serious? Does she know you at all? You'd kill it," she retorts with a scoff. It's not mean, and sometimes Quinn's bluntness is actually nice to hear, but only when I agree with what she has to say.

Sometimes her bluntness is just plain rude.

"That's what I told her. But she seems to think it'd be good for me. Plus, it is really cute." I keep smiling down at the picture, her whiskers bent in different directions where she's pressed along Brittany's shirt. Her blue eyes are big and boldly staring up at Brittany, her mouth parted in what I can only assume is mid cry.

I feel Quinn lean closer, her chin perched on my shoulder as she looks down at the picture. "She is cute. But I still don't know if you can take care of her properly" she teases.

"I'm not Cruella. I don't think something so small and fluffy will really be my demise," I chuckle.

Quinn turns to shift her focus on me, the bone of her chin digging into my shoulder. "When are you going to pick her up?" she asks, her voice sly and dripping with jest.

"You make it sound like I've already decided I'm getting her," I snort out as she leans back and I lock my phone with one last look at the picture.

"Because it's obvious you have." She rolls her eyes and reaches for her mug of coffee on the table in front of us.

I ignore the way my heart flutters and hope the heat in my cheeks can't be seen. "Shut up," I mutter, and she just laughs.

We sit for a moment, Quinn enjoying her coffee as I let the joking in the room fade away. It feels easier to just sit and relax now that I've talked to her, like even if she wouldn't have been okay with it, I would still feel better after telling her.

"Thanks Q," I breathe, and I know she knows how much I hate being this mushy and vulnerable. So she nods her head and smiles, and I know there's nothing more that needs to be said.

* * *

I curl against the back couch cushion, my knees pulled up to my chest as I listen to Brittany pour cat food into a bowl, a loud hungry cry echoing over the phone. I smile, a small laugh seeping past my lips at how ridiculous her cat is.

"So you should come to the club tonight," Brittany practically purrs, and I feel the hammer of my heartbeat rattling against my chest, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck straightening like the breath of her words have actually tickled over my skin.

"Oh I should, should I?" I play back, gulping down the tiny bit of nerves that flutter in my stomach at how flirtatious she's being.

"Yup. And you should totally wait until my shift is over so you can give me a ride home," she giggles, and I feel the heat bloom over my cheeks like a paint brush dipped in a jar of water. I hear the meaning between each word, the invitation for me to come to her house slipping behind the playfulness in her voice. Is she asking me to stay the night?

I swallow hard, the temperature in the room suddenly growing warm and a little suffocating. "Oh really?" I manage to flirt back, wiping the thin layer of sweat from the palm of my hand on my leg. "So basically you just want me as your chauffeur, not for my impeccable company." I let out a small laugh, hoping the beating of my heart beneath my chest goes back to normal. We've already shared a bed twice without it being a big deal, so there shouldn't be a difference just because it's now her bed.

And she hasn't even asked me to stay over. Has she?

No. I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Well I mean, it's nice to be able to have a conversation with the person driving me around." I can hear the airy laugh that coats her voice, the sheer joking and giddiness that just continues to make my heart beat wildly beneath my chest.

"I don't know," I draw out, teasing. "I might be too tired to drive all the way to your house and then back home without crashing and dying."

"That's a little dramatic," she giggles, and I hear her move over the phone. I close my eyes and try to picture her at her house, cheeks flushed and the biggest smile on her face.

My heart beats against my ribs again.

"And what if I said I wanted you to stay over?" Her voice is lower, a soft and vibrant hum, and I feel my heart beat between my legs and low in my belly.

"Then I'd say you're being rather flirtatious this evening." I can't help the way my voice dips a little, a mixture of desire and nerves battling until the one that comes out sounds more like surprise than anything else.

"Is that a problem?" she breathes back without missing a beat. It's scary really, how she can be both intimidating and innocent at the same time. Like she knows exactly what she's doing to make me want her, yet it's playful and light like two friends who have known each other for years instead of weeks.

"No," I manage to squeak out, and I hear her try to stifle her laugh. My skin gets impossibly warmer, like someone's pointing a heater at me, a slow and steady increase of heat.

"So does that mean you'll come?" she asks almost hesitantly, but also as if she already knows the answer and is purely asking for my sake.

My offer hangs between us more visibly now, and I don't want to push her, but I also don't want to wait too long and it become too late. It's weird. I can't imagine doing this tour without her now, which is both ridiculous and utterly insane.

But true.

"Under one condition," She must sense a more serious tone to my voice, because she's silent as she waits. "You give me an answer about my offer tonight. And just for the record, I won't accept anything but yes." I add a tiny laugh, hoping to alleviate some of the severity that looms over the conversation now.

"Santana," she sort of whines, but it's nothing compared to the first time I brought it up. I smile, my hope bubbling higher as I realize that her saying yes is more of a possibility now.

"Come on, Britt. What are you so scared of? It'll be great exposure for you. You'll get paid well. And you get to spend three months with me. I don't think a job could get much better," I tease, and I hear her giggle with a scoff and know she's so close to agreeing. "Just think about it until later."

She lets out a heavy sigh. "Okay."

"Okay," I repeat, unable to hide the massive smile on my face. "What time do you want me to come to the club?"

"I get off at two. So it depends if you want a dance or not." And with that she hangs up, leaving me standing there with a disconnected line and a heat over my cheeks that could probably warm up the cold coffee that's currently in my forgotten mug on the kitchen counter.

* * *

At midnight I still haven't decided if I want to go early or not. I feel like whichever decision I make will be the wrong one. If I go early, it'll be because I want to have her dance for me, which at this point seems a little silly. And if I don't go early, it'll be because I don't want her to dance for me, which she could take as meaning I'm not interested in her.

Which is obviously not true.

I run my fingers through my still damp hair, combing through the knots at the end as I try and decide whether to pull it up and put on comfortable clothes before picking Brittany up, or blowing it dry and dressing up to go to the club.

The idea of getting to see Brittany dance again is just too tempting, and it doesn't take long to style my hair and pull on a pair of skinny jeans and a black top. I'm halfway out the door before I realize it's not Friday and therefore I can't wear a mask without looking ridiculous.

Brittany should know this though, and the fact that she didn't say anything puzzles me. Does she expect me to just not wear one?

Just as I'm about to turn back around and head inside to change, my phone buzzes in my purse.

_Come to the back door at 1:30. I saved my last slot for you ;)_

I hate that she knew all along I would come early. And I hate that she knows exactly what I'm thinking, and she's miles away.

And by hate it, I don't really mean hate at all.

It's sort of like a seed that's been planted in the pit of my stomach the first time I saw her. This budding desire to like her that just continues to grow and blossom into feelings that are way more than just simple like.

The complete opposite of hate actually.

It's frustrating really, because I have no clue if I'm ready for what all this means. And I have no clue how Brittany feels. The damn winky face doesn't help matters either.

There's hardly any traffic as I drive over, parking near the back of the club. I wait until the clock on my dash turns 1:29 before getting out and heading to the back door. I stand there for about a minute before Joe opens it and smiles down at me knowingly. I'm thankful it's dark in the back so I don't have to duck my head to hide the blush that creeps across my skin.

"Miss Scarlett," he smirks, pushing the door open further so I can step by him and into the hallway where the private rooms are. "Room four," he says as he closes the door, and walks past me to the front of the hallway where the black curtain is.

My heels tap against the floor as I walk towards room four, turning the handle and stepping inside. It's still empty, and it's a little weird to be back here after seeing Brittany beyond the walls of this club.

I'm fiddling with the stereo when she walks in, and my hand jerks against the volume dial, blasting the room with eighties rock that definitely contradicts the outfit I'm currently looking at. She's sinfully beautiful in a black lace bra and matching panties, a pair of black knee high socks cover her legs, and the whole ensemble contrasts her milky skin in a way that should either be considered heaven, or the most punishable hell.

"Hi," she smirks, leaning against the now closed door.

I think I manage to squeak out a hello before she's crossing the room and pulling me into a tight embrace. I gulp back the way my knees slightly buckle at the way she's pressed up against me, her barely covered skin radiating warmth down my front.

It isn't until she's leading me to sit on the couch that I think about payment. "Britt, I didn't pay –"

She cuts me off with another sly smirk, leaning over me until her lips are grazing against the shell of my ear. "My treat." She seals it with a little nip that sends my body into a violent shiver, my hands already gripping tight to my jean-covered thighs.

She doesn't play fair. At all.

I don't know whether to hate her for it, or just continue to let my heart beat for her over and over again.

She slinks away to fix the rock music that's still playing, and I hate the way that I can't relax all of a sudden. Like no matter how much time we've spent together outside of this club, it all means nothing when she's standing in front of me with a cock of her hips and a taunt in her eyes.

She stares down at me, unmoving, a curl to her lips.

"Britt," I breathe, loosening my grip on my jeans. I flick my gaze away from her for a moment, growing uneasy and nervous about what I'm supposed to do.

"Santana," she teases, voice husky and low. I shiver again.

I hate her.

Except that I don't. Not even a little bit.

She leans forward until her hands are against the back of the couch above my shoulders, her face now inches from mine. It's insane how much more playful she is when she's working, and I don't know if this is just how she is with all of her clients. Wouldn't she act like this all the time around me if she had similar feelings to mine?

Her hips are moving back and forth as she smiles, but it's not like the other times she danced for me. It seems more relaxed, lighter and easier, like she's simply winding down from her shift.

"How was work?" I ask when she just continues to smile at me as she moves.

"Busy," she smirks as she swivels around until her back is now to me, squatting as she hovers over my thighs. "Some guy got thrown out for being a little handsy," she comments, and it shouldn't make me upset, but it does. She looks at me over her shoulder, and I must really suck at hiding my emotions around her, because she instantly turns around to face me again, wiping away the wrinkles from between my brow. "Hey, it's fine. It's not like he was hurting me, just a little drunk."

It should reassure me, but it doesn't.

"Okay," I say anyways, because it's not her I'm upset with. And I know her job gets a bad reputation and it really isn't as bad as people make it out to be. But I can't help but want better for her. I'm not sure why I do, but I do, and I especially don't like hearing about customers who cross the line.

I want her to be able to dance and do what she loves without the possibility of a customer going too far.

Her knees dip harder into the couch by my hips, and she watches me carefully as she slowly lowers herself until she's sitting on my lap.

"Guess what?" she grins. I try to focus on what she's saying instead of the way the heat of her is pressed against the tops of my thighs.

"What?" I sort of croak out, my hands coming up to rest on her hips. I pause before I touch her, and when she nods her head in permission, my hands circle around the bones protruding at her waist. Her skin is so warm and soft, and my thumb makes small circles over it without my control.

She relaxes, settling on top of me more comfortably as the small tension in the room vanishes with each soft stroke of my thumb against her smooth skin.

"A certain song came on the radio today, and I had the club play it over and over again until people started getting sick of it." Her smile is more child-like, and my thumb smoothes over her hips again at how beautiful she is right now.

It takes me a minute to realize what she's talking about. I'm sure she can see the way realization dawns on me, and how my cheeks instantly dust over in a faint blush. Labyrinth was released today.

"Oh," I breathe out, a little shy now. "What'd you think?" I duck my head and avoid her gaze, suddenly dependent on her answer.

"It was amazing. I didn't want to stop listening to it," she giggles, but it's so sincere that it pulls a heavy sigh from within at just how much her opinion of me matters. My eyes flick back to hers, and her lips quirk into the most genuine smile I've ever seen. "Your voice is so beautiful, Santana. It's like warm, honey tea on a rainy day. Or like when Lord Tubbington purrs when I scratch behind his ears."

My hands shake against her hips as I shudder at her pure honesty. I've read and heard many compliments and critiques before, but somehow hers means the most. Like I've been staring at the same painting for years, but have never had someone tell me what it actually meant.

"I don't know what to say," I manage to laugh out in a small, shaky breath. She's so perfect it hurts sometimes, and I don't know how I've managed to go so many years without her in my life. I want to just sit here forever, and have her tell me stories so I can listen to her speak. And just look at her, and how her body curves and dips in perfection, like God specifically sculpted her from the most precious marble and clay.

I breathe out a heavy puff of air, my hands growing bold at her words as they move away from her hips, my fingers tracing up to her ribs and rubbing small circles into the divots between them. I feel them expand as she takes in a deep inhale, her eyes clouding over to a slate blue.

Her lips snake up at the corners, pulling them tight into a smile that is both shy and knowing.

The moment of silence stretches as my fingers continue to paint invisible patterns into her bare skin along her sides, her eyes never wavering from mine. I feel like we're having a silent conversation with our eyes. Like I'm telling her how utterly beautiful she is, and she takes the compliment before returning with how completely sweet I am. I know I should be careful. She can probably read exactly how I feel about her in the way I'm looking at her, but I can't seem to look away.

Her body squirms when I scratch beneath her ribs, and I chuckle at how impossibly cute she is. It's ridiculous really, but it's also just so perfect.

"So, I've been thinking about your offer," she says after a while of us just sitting together.

"And," I prompt her when she seems to stop there. She's such a tease in every way, and it should be the most annoying thing in the world, but it's not. She has me wound around her pinky finger like a piece of yarn, and everything she does just tugs me closer and tighter to her.

"And I'll do it, under one condition." She's grinning her sneaky smile, the one she gets when she has an idea, and I melt into her further.

_Anything_, I think. _I'll do anything for you._

The string around her finger pulls tighter, and I feel it around my heart, tugging it harder and faster against my chest.

I nod my head for her to continue.

"You adopt Princess Peach." Her whole face lights up in excitement, like she's buzzing with an energy that just can't be contained. Her skin hums beneath my fingers, and I already know my answer before I even have to think about it.

The string tugs at my heart, and I breathe out an "okay" without a moment's hesitation.

"Really?" she squeaks in delight, leaning forward and pulling me flush against her in a clumsy hug. I sigh into it, looping my arms around her middle and pulling her closer. "Then it's a deal," she giggles against my neck. I fight the way my body wants to shiver, and I'm pretty sure it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do.

She pulls back, but her hands stay around my neck, tickling at the little hairs at the base of it. We stay like that for a little, again having a silent conversation as our fingers tentatively stroke at each other's skin, eyes smiling and constant.

"This really isn't a dance," she comments lazily when the stereo has changed songs again.

How do I tell her that this is so much better without word vomiting all over her. I can't, so I just smile and nod my head as my hands fall to her hips again and squeeze just a little.

"I'm excited for you to see my place," she giggles, pulling back until her hands drop to play idly with the hem of my shirt. Every now and then her knuckles scrape against my belly, and I fight the way it makes me want to either shudder or lean forward and kiss her.

We still haven't talked about what happened. And I still don't know how she feels about it. She obviously has no problem flirting with me by the way she's currently straddling me in just her underwear. But that doesn't necessarily mean she wants to kiss me. Kisses always mean something, even if they're drunken and done in dark cars.

"Me too," I answer.

She smiles genuinely for a second, and then it morphs into her sneaky grin, and before I have time to process it, she's tickling under my shirt. Her body above me keeps me pinned and I can't squirm away from her assault.

"Stop, stop," I whine, trying to twist away from her. She just keeps giggling and giggling, her fingers digging into me harder.

I hate her. Except I don't.

The string tugs at my heart again.

She stops after a moment, but her hands stay under my shirt, her palms flat against my stomach. I press into them every time I breathe, and all of a sudden the room gets very hot. I swallow hard, my eyes searching hers for answers to unasked questions. They fall to watch as her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and I feel myself leaning forward. My eyes flick between hers and her lips, and the space between our faces gets smaller and smaller.

I close my eyes and wait, but as soon as I can start to feel her hot breath against my lips, there's a loud knock at the door, and she scrambles off my lap so fast, my body's shocked at the drastic loss of heat.

Joe peeks his head in and looks between the both of us before settling on her. "Your shift's done. Mark's been looking for you." He's gone without another word, and she turns to look at me, both flustered and apologetic.

"You can slip out the back door if you want. And I can meet you in the parking lot, if that's okay." Her breathing is heavier and shallower, and all I want to do is surge forward and kiss it away. I know my chest must be rising and falling faster than normal, but I'm having a hard time comprehending the fact that we almost kissed, both completely sober this time.

She wanted it. I know she did.

But now the moment's gone, and she's back to being a little unsure as she shifts from one foot to the other in front of me.

I really want to smack Joe for interrupting, but I swallow and nod my head. "Yeah, that's fine."

"Okay," she mimics my nodding, and gives me one last smile before turning and exiting the room.

It takes me a moment to get my breathing under control before I stand from the couch. I smooth down the front of my shirt, my skin burning where her hands had been.

Maybe she has burned me. Because I know no matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to wash away the feel of her hands against my skin.

* * *

Her apartment is located outside of the city, tucked away on the outskirts like the cattails that litter a lake's edge. It's small, but nice, and I like that I can barely hear the city traffic that honks even at this hour.

"It's nothing compared to yours, but I like it," she says as she instructs me to park on the street out front. I smile as I turn the car off, because it is nice, and I want her to know that.

"I can already tell I like it too," I grin back, and even in the low light of the street lamps I can see the blush that blooms over her cheeks.

She leads me to the front door, and I wait for her to open it, glancing around at her neighborhood. There's a bike left in the front yard a few houses over, and a dog barking somewhere down the street. It's not as secluded as my place, but it's not swarmed with commotion either.

I'm pulled from my spying when she pushes the door open, and loud meows cry from within at the sound.

"Hey buddy," she greets, bending down and scooping her cat into her arms. She kisses across his face, and he instantly purrs, closing his eyes as he basks in her love.

Is it possible to be jealous of a cat?

"My roommate's spending the night at a friend's," she informs as she closes the door behind us, and I nod to let her know I heard her as I look around. It's bigger than it looked from the outside, and I scan the parts of it I can see. She has more stuff lying around, and it makes it feel homier. A comfortable feeling settles over me as I look from the blanket tossed carelessly over the arm of the couch and how it drapes to the floor, to the magazines that litter the coffee table.

She walks to the kitchen, and I follow behind, unsure if I should or not. She sets her cat down on the kitchen counter, and I grimace at how he plops down like it's his bed or something. Does she really let him walk on the place she probably puts food and stuff? Doesn't he get hair all over it?

She moves to the cabinet next to the fridge and pulls out a can of chopped chicken. "He only eats chicken. I tried to give him fish once, like they do on the cartoons, but he refused to eat it. Maybe I should have cooked it first, but they always show cats just eating a whole fish." She shrugs her shoulders like it's the most obvious thing, and I feel the scowl I had from him sitting on the kitchen counters wipe away, softening into a smile at just how adorable she is.

I watch her scoop the chunks of chicken into a bowl and debate whether I should tell her that cats should eat cat food, but this seems like such a routine for her, that I can't help but just lean against the wall and watch. She adds a cup of dry food to the meat, stirring and placing the bowl in front of him. He meows in appreciation and starts eating immediately as she pats his head.

She washes her hands and then turns to me, smiling as she walks closer. "Do you want to take that to my room?" she asks, pointing towards the bag slung over my shoulder.

"Sure," I gulp out, suddenly nervous at seeing her bedroom.

"Okay," she smiles, walking past me and out of the kitchen. I follow her to the back of the apartment, and into the last room at the end of the hall. It's a lot smaller than mine, and she doesn't have a king size bed, but it's really nice. She has tapestry hanging over her window like a curtain, and the streetlights from outside cast the room in an orange and bluish glow as it filters through the fabric. Her bed sits in the corner, unmade, and she quickly moves forward to pull the comforter up. She grins at me sheepishly as she walks around the room and picks up the few pieces of clothing that are scattered across the floor. It's sweet, but I honestly don't care. Her whole floor could be covered in clothes and I would still like it because it's hers.

My mind instantly starts picturing the way the sun will paint the room in colors through the tapestry in the morning, like our own private sunrise as we're snuggled in her bed together. It makes my blood run hot and I turn my back on her so she can't see it as I place my bag down in the corner by her closet.

"Do you want to get ready for bed now, or do you want a drink or something?" she asks, and I smile at her sudden nervousness as well. It's such a contrast from her behavior at the club, and I love that she can be both confident and shy. Like the rolling waves of the ocean, strong and sure as they crash against the shore, but small and uncertain as they retreat back to the sea.

"Whatever you want." I sit down on the edge of her bed, my ankles crossing as they dangle over the side.

She smirks and slinks across the room towards me, my tummy coiling as she moves closer and closer, like a lion stalking its prey. She stops in front of me, my legs parting so she can stand between them as her hands drop to rest against my knees. She swings my legs back and forth, hitting against hers before she pushes them back again. She giggles, and I'm sure I have the dopiest smile on my face as I tilt my head up to watch her.

"I know." Her voice brightens with an idea, and she brings one of her hands up and taps the end of my nose. "Let's make s'mores." She's skipping out of the room before I can respond, and I have no choice but to follow her, my smile only growing with every step I take after her.

She gathers the ingredients in her arms from the kitchen, and I'm about to ask how we're going to make them, but she leads me back through the apartment and out the front door. "Louis has this fire pit that he lets us use whenever we want," she comments over her shoulder as she walks around her apartment building and along a chain link fence. It's gotten a little chilly, and I wish I had grabbed a sweatshirt.

Brittany hops across the stepping-stones of the path like a child would crossing a stream, and I focus on the way her hair whips over her back instead of the chill across my skin.

Behind the apartment building there's an opening in the fence, and Brittany ducks through it, motioning for me to follow her. I'm a little skeptical because it seems rather sketchy, but she looks at me like I'm being silly, and I make my way to the other side.

"Just be careful of Rocko," she informs in a whisper. I'm about to ask who Rocko is when a Pitbull on the back porch of the house whose yard we're now in starts barking at us. I flinch away from the sound, curling myself against Brittany without meaning to. She wraps the arm without the ingredients around me. "It's okay, he's not actually mean. He likes to pretend so the other dogs in the neighborhood won't ban him from poker night."

There are so many things I want to say to that, like the fact that Pitbulls are fucking scary when they bark like that, and a lot of them do bite, but I melt into her side and nod my head instead.

We walk through the back yard and cut through another fence, and she pulls me along by her side. She stops once we're in the adjacent yard, and tells me to sit in one of the lawn chairs by the unlit fire pit. I feel weird sitting in someone else's yard, but Brittany's already lighting the fire like she lives here, so I settle back in the chair and watch the flames come to life.

She hands me the package of marshmallows and tells me to get two out as she pulls the metal rods from the holder by the pit. I don't want to even wonder where they've been as I stick a marshmallow on each rod, and she holds one out to me with an enormous smile. She sits in the chair next to me, and we both hold our rods over the fire, watching as the whites of the marshmallows become caramelized.

She makes my s'more for me, and all I can do is smile and watch her as my heart beats, beats, beats for her.

We don't talk. She just watches me eat mine with this cheshire grin plastered to her face, and all I can do is return it.

Once I've wiped the last bit of marshmallow from the corner of Brittany's mouth, she puts the fire out and leads me back to her apartment. She throws a piece of graham cracker to Rocko as we traipse through his yard, and I don't miss the way his tail wags in happy appreciation.

Maybe he isn't as bad as I thought. Maybe Brittany was right.

Brittany's probably always right.

As we're passing back through the fence that leads to the side of her apartment building, her fingers lace through mine to help pull me through, and I almost trip at the way it makes me feel. If I had still been cold seconds before, I'm definitely not now. She squeezes my hand, and I feel it around my heart. She doesn't let go until we're back inside her apartment, and I wish she could just hold it forever.

We change for bed, and take turns brushing our teeth in her bathroom down the hall.

I look down at her smaller bed and wonder if it's going to be weird sleeping with hardly any space between us, but the quirk of her brow and lift of her upper lip is enough to tell me I'm being silly again.

She waits till I'm settled under the covers on the side closest to the wall, before she turns off the lights and scurries to her side, sliding under the covers like she's performing a gymnastic routine, quick and perfect.

"It's cold," she complains in a giggle, as she scuttles under the covers like she's trying to warm herself up.

"I know," I chuckle, turning on my side so I can watch as she continues to squirm around dramatically.

"We should warm each other up." When she turns her head to look at me, the rest of her body suddenly still, the smirk on her face is anything but teasing. My body now aches to be warmed by her, and I have to gulp back the flood of words that threaten to spill from my mouth like a broken dam.

"Okay," I breathe out, barely above a whisper. The playfulness in the room has faded, and I see the same look on her face that she had in the club before we almost kissed. I gulp, my skin now buzzing with what she's going to do next.

When I don't move, her lips slip into an easy smile, parting slightly in a little laugh. "You need to turn over silly."

My skin heats at her words, to the point I don't think it's necessary for her to warm me up anymore. She could just keep saying things like that and I'd never be cold again.

She continues smiling at me, but her eyes are softer now, like she's asking for permission.

I swallow away the sudden dryness in my mouth, my heart beating erratically beneath my chest, and turn over until I'm facing the wall. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until I let out a long sigh when her arm snakes around my middle. Her palm is flat against my stomach and I feel the bed dip near my back as she scoots closer to me.

I wonder if she can now feel how fast my heart is beating, or at the very least hear it with how close she is.

But she doesn't say anything. She just pulls me closer until there's barely any space between my back and her front.

"Much better," she comments, her breath tickling at the back of my neck.

I don't speak. I can't.

I'll either say way too much, or not enough.

So I sigh and close my eyes, willing sleep, but knowing it won't come for a while, not with the way I can feel Brittany's breasts push against my back with every breath she takes.

Maybe I'll fall asleep soon.

Or maybe I'll just listen to the way she lightly snores behind me. And maybe I'll just be content to lie here with her forever and ever, enjoying the way her body curves around mine.

And maybe tomorrow after I watch her wake up, the first signs of sleep washing from her face as she blinks in the morning sun, I'll be able to fall asleep.

But right now my stomach is fluttering too fast, and my skin is buzzing too warm for me to fall asleep. And I honestly don't want her to ever stop holding me the way she is as she continues to flit from dream to dream.

My heart beats, beats, beats for her.


	8. Chapter Seven

A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews! And I'm so very sorry this took so long. For those of you who don't follow me on tumblr (hemoisperfection) I made a post last week saying how my new job is preventing me from keeping up with my original updating plan. So from now on I'll just be posting as I finish each chapter, and I apologize in advance if it takes a little long. I will do my best! Again thank you for caring about this story as much as I do, and thanks to Chrissy and Bekah.

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Dance Me To Your Beauty With A Burning Violin**

_Los Angeles, May 2013._

* * *

My body hurts. Everywhere. Running has not properly prepared me for this choreography, and every day at rehearsal I'm reminded how very little dancing experience I have. It's very frustrating, and I kind of hate that singing doesn't form muscle, because then at least my body wouldn't hate me so much right now.

However, watching Brittany pick up the moves like they are as simple as walking is captivating. She transitions from one part of the dance to the next so gracefully I find myself just watching her instead of trying to do them myself. She's so beautiful and elegant, like a regal dolphin gliding through water, like it's second nature for her.

The last thing I want to do after a week's worth of torturing my body is go get this stupid kitten, but a promise is a promise. I still can't believe I agreed to this, but saying no to Brittany is like kicking a puppy. I'd rather not kick a puppy.

She's waiting for me when I get there, holding Princess Peach in her arms like a damn trophy, all bright eyes and cheeky smile, like she's reenacting the opening scene to The Lion King when she holds the fur ball out to me as I walk through the door.

"She's so excited. She's been making herself presentable for you all day. We had to pry her away from the mirror because some of the other kittens were getting a little annoyed." Brittany cradles Princess Peach to her chest and brings her hands up to cup over the cat's ears, like she's protecting her from what she's about to say next. "Some were even calling her Kim Kardashian. Which is silly because Kim is really, really pretty, so that's like a compliment, but they were hissing it like it was a bad thing. But I do hope Princess Peach isn't exactly like Kim Kardashian because I don't think she's age appropriate yet to have a sex tape."

I'm not sure which part of that rant I want to reply to first, so I just smile that ridiculous grin that's sort of become my Brittany smile, and let out a silent laugh, because what else is there to say to that. I can feel my dimples indenting my cheeks as Brittany looks at me and smiles wider, like she's just realized how adorable she is, and I can't do anything but stand there and do the same.

She's just so perfect. Like the last flower in bloom when winter gnaws at the heels of autumn, and I just want to keep her safe and show her off at the same time. I don't know what I did to deserve the fact that she wants to be my friend, but I don't think I've ever been this lucky in my life.

"Why are there mirrors in the cat rooms?" I finally ask when I have to look away from her gaze.

She giggles, and I feel myself lean towards her from where I'm standing at the sound of it. "Because it's really funny when they see themselves in it. Sometimes they'll try and play with their reflection like it's another cat, and it's so adorable."

I shake my head as that dopey Brittany smile snakes across my face again. I don't understand how one person can be so perfectly adorable and undeniably beautiful. It's so unfair, and I can't do anything but want her more and more every day.

"Has anyone ever told you how funny you are?" I look up at her through my lashes with my head still angled towards the floor, a little bashful all of a sudden with the rush of emotions she's making me feel all at once.

She cocks her head to the side and stares at me, lips pursed together and eyes wide like a curious dog. "Did I say something funny?" she asks after a moment, but the way she says it has me laughing again. She's sneaky in all the best ways, and I love her sense of humor and how people probably think she's being serious more times than she really is.

She crinkles her nose at me with another cheeky grin before looking down at Princess Peach and scratching under her chin.

"She needs a nickname, because I'm not calling her Princess Peach all the time," I complain, but it's obvious I'm not really upset or bothered by it. Probably quite the opposite, and Brittany clearly knows it because she looks at me like I'm being silly.

"Well she _is_ a Princess. Lord Tubbington told me that he wants to marry her so they can be the next royal family." I snort out a chuckle, and duck my head instantly in embarrassment. How does she do it? How does she make me act so childlike when I'm usually so put together? Maybe it's because she's so unencumbered and I wish I could capture her imagination and share it with the world.

"Isn't he a little old for her?" I step closer to her and reach out my hand, running it over Princess Peach's head tentatively.

"She's not going to bite, silly," Brittany giggles as she watches. I offer a shy smile before I begin to pet her with a little more confidence. "And older guys were married to younger girls all the time back in the day, so he's just sticking with tradition."

Is it possible to like someone as much as I like Brittany right now?

"I don't think you should call her P.P. cause that just sounds funny, and a little like you're trying to describe a penis to a child." Brittany's face contorts in dislike before she shakes her head.

I stare at her in disbelief for a second before my body rocks in laughter. Looks like I'll be calling this damn cat by its full name.

We both stand there a minute, watching each other pet Princess Peach, every now and then my fingers grazing hers, and it's the most innocent foreplay I think I've ever been involved in. It's electrifying, but so simple, that my heart doesn't know whether it should just beat erratically in my chest or fall to beat between my legs.

"Well, here is your new baby," she says so sweetly that my heart has made up its mind and starts beating wildly against my ribs. She plays so unfair, and I can't do anything but fall more and more in like with her.

She hands the little fluffer to me, and I'm pretty sure I'm the most awkward person when I try to cradle her in my arms as perfectly as Brittany had a moment before. She squirms and cries out, and I feel my heart clench at the sound. I don't want her to hate me already.

"I think she likes you better," I comment as she continues to wiggle in my hands like she's looking for the comfort she had in Brittany's arms.

"I'm easy to like," she teases, and god how I wish I could tell her how very right that statement is. I settle for a nervous laugh and a glance up at her, only to find her looking at me with so much tenderness that the laughter dies on my lips. "Maybe she's nervous because you're famous," she teases further with a wink and a scrunch of her brow.

"I don't like you right now," I chuckle out, sending her into a fit of giggles. It's probably very obvious how much that is a lie.

I fiddle with the still squirming kitten in my arms until she settles herself into the crook of my elbow. I smile down at her as she yawns out a contented meow, and when I look up at Brittany, her focus isn't on Princess Peach. Her eyes are trained on me, studying me, searching for something, and I wish I knew what it was she is looking for. I would gladly give it to her.

Her eyes flick from one part of my face to another, and I have to duck my head as I feel my cheeks warm under her gaze.

"You'll probably have to come over in a few days just to make sure I haven't killed her." I try to keep my voice light and joking, but it's softer than it was a moment ago, and I can't stop myself from looking up to see her reaction.

She smiles at first, but must sense the underlying gist of seriousness, because it fades into a look of pure adoration. Like I'm the one that needs to be rescued not Princess Peach.

It's funny in the way that clutches at my heart, and makes me like her even more. I'm not sure how much more in like with Brittany I can be.

"I can do that," she smiles softly, moving forward until she can scratch at Princess Peach's head. Her eyes don't leave mine as she does it, and it shouldn't be teasing, but somehow it is.

I nod my head in acknowledgment, breaking our gaze to watch as Brittany's fingers run smoothly over soft fur. Again I wonder if it's possible to be jealous of a cat.

"I'll see you Monday? At rehearsal?" I ask, and I can feel the unspoken question of whether or not we're going to see each other this weekend hangs between us, heavy and silent.

She nods her head though, and I fight to keep my face from falling. It shouldn't be a big deal not to see her all weekend, but somehow it is.

* * *

A week left before opening night at the Staples Center has me twitching with nervous excitement. We have one more song's choreography to do, and a fitting for some wardrobe, and I almost can't believe how quickly these weeks of rehearsing have gone.

I'm scribbling in my songbook, working through some of the incomplete ones when I hear a ruckus of paws against furniture coming from the living room. I sigh and drop my pen, getting up from my kitchen table to go investigate what the perpetrator has done now.

I find her guilty as hell, and quickly pull out my phone as she looks at me with an innocence that is a complete oxymoron to her current position.

_Meet my new partner in crime_. I tweet with a picture of Princess Peach clinging to the side of the couch, her little teeth biting into the arm of it. I send a copy of the picture to Brittany before I try to peel the little monster from my couch, her pitiful whines of protest echoing in my living room.

"Okay killer, why don't we just take a chill pill for a fucking second before you ruin every piece of furniture before dinner." She squirms in my hands and I really just want to shake the damn thing, but Brittany was pretty clear about that not being a viable training option. She turns her head and sinks her teeth into my finger. It's not really hard, and she barely breaks the skin, but I've had about enough of Cujo kitty for one lifetime.

I drop her to the ground and she scurries off, scampering out of the living room and to who knows where. Hopefully through some secret portal to Hell because I'm pretty sure she's Satan's guardian at this point.

I plop down on the couch and I begin to wonder why in the sweet fluff hell I agreed to this in the first place. My phone goes off, and I smile at who the text is from, remembering why I'm currently living with a devil kitten that likes to go for my jugular as I'm sleeping.

_Don't kill her Santana. She's acting out for a reason. What did you do to her?_

What did I do to her? Is she fucking serious? This cat wants to kill me and she thinks I did something wrong.

_You let me adopt Satan's personal cat and you think I'm the one with the issues?_

_We all have issues Santana. Maybe you two just need some family counseling :) _I hate that her humor can almost completely alleviate all of my anger. I should be allowed to be mad that my house is currently being terrorized as I hear another rip of fabric come from down the hall and the stampede of kitten feet running from the scene of the crime.

_You're not funny :( _I text back, even though we both know it's a lie.

_What are you doing?_ We didn't have rehearsal today, so the plan was to run some errands and maybe even go to the spa to relax, but I didn't want to leave and come back to a house ruined by a four-legged burglar.

_Sitting on my couch. I'm tired :( Want to come over and take a nap with me ;) _I wasn't really planning on taking a nap, but the idea of snuggling with Brittany is always appealing. And maybe since she thinks she's some cat whisperer or some shit, she can talk some sense into Little Miss Hellcat.

_Sure! I just got done with a ballet class so I might be a little stinky._

I chuckle as I read the text, baffled at how I can find someone telling me they smell so adorable.

_You can shower here if you want._ My cheeks flame at my forwardness and the prospect of a very wet and naked Brittany in my house. I'm definitely not tired anymore.

_Nap first please. _She could tell me she wants to build a skyscraper before she showers and I'd be okay with that. I'd probably be the one holding the tools for her.

I put my phone down and look around the house, slightly annoyed that it's a lot messier than usual. Who knew having a pet meant you had to clean more often? I really don't feel like getting up and I know Brittany won't care, so I settle back down into the couch and turn on the tv.

Brittany rings the doorbell twenty minutes later, and I groan at having to get up to let her in. This is why all my friends should have a copy of my key. But then I remember how Quinn always bursts in at all the wrong times, and I quickly take back that thought.

Except I don't think I would ever mind Brittany coming in without notice.

She's standing on my doorstep in leg warmers bunched around her ankles, a black leotard, and a grey sweater, and I don't think she's ever looked cuter.

"I didn't know people still wore leotards to ballet classes," I comment as my eyes appreciate the length of her body.

"Have you ever been to a ballet class?" she giggles as she walks past me and immediately to my fridge. I watch as she opens it like she lives here, grabbing a bottle of water and sitting down at my breakfast bar.

"Well, no –"

"I didn't think so," she smiles as she takes a sip, and I love how easy everything is with her. Her teasing always makes me smile, when normally I'd want to punch someone in the face for always being so happy and silly. But with her, it just works somehow, and I reach for her bottle of water and take a sip with a smirk before she can say anything.

She grabs my wrist when I set the bottle down, and she gently runs her fingertip over the punctured skin down the inside of my arm. "Oh my god Santana, what happened?" There's so much care and concern in her voice that my heart swells and beats for her against my ribcage.

I look down at my arm that's still cradled in her hand, and watch as she reverently glides her finger up and down the scratch, like each soft swipe will magically erase the bruise from my skin.

"That would be the work of Puta Peach," I let out a small laugh as her finger traces over it again. It really isn't that bad, and the skin has already begun to scab over, but her brow is scrunched and she's looking at it like I need stitches or something. I don't know whether to laugh at how ridiculous she's being, or cry at how sweet.

Her eyes stay glued to my arm, and for a moment I think she's going to actually suggest taking me to the hospital to get it stitched up. But then she's leaning forward and pressing her lips to it, soft and gentle like a brilliant cloud. My heart soars for her over and over again.

She moves her lips along the cut, like she's sealing it closed herself, and I'm finding it harder and harder not to just grab her and kiss her silly. She pulls back and smiles at me, that reserved and shy smile that she has when she's happy but unsure at the same time. "Is that better?" she asks, soft and quiet.

"Much." My voice shakes a little, and I have to press my lips together in order to keep from leaning forward and kissing her in thanks.

"Good." Her smile grows, and her uncertainty and shyness fades as her eyes brighten. "Now, I believe you said something about a nap."

My heart flutters like it's about to take flight, and I'm not sure I can keep it from doing so much longer.

I nod my head, a timid half-smile curling at the corner of my mouth, as I pull my arm from her hand and walk out of the kitchen. She follows without question, and I can feel the heat of her gaze on my back, wondering what she's looking for and hoping she finds it.

"Um, do you want to sleep on the couch or in the bed?" I turn to face her and her eyes quickly snap up to mine, her cheeks blooming with color when she realizes she's been caught staring at my ass. I fight the urge to tease her about it, shifting my weight to one foot as I wait for her answer.

"Couch is closer," she mumbles and slips past me into the living room, almost skipping like she's purposely trying to avoid being teased. I chuckle and shake my head, turning to follow her into the living room. She's already stretched out against the back cushions, purposely leaving space in front of her for me to squeeze in. It's not a small couch, but there's really no other position for two people to lay without spooning, and the wings that carry my heart flap faster.

She pats the space when I just stand there and stare down at her. "Come on. I'm sleepy," she pouts, and it's anything but serious. I chuckle and shake my head at her again. It seems like that's my only reaction to her everything she does, because anything more would only complicate things.

She giggles and slides further back into the cushions, patting the empty space in front of her again. "Why do you still take ballet classes anyways?" I ask as I settle onto the couch. "I've seen you dance, and I'm pretty sure your body is already perfect," I say without thinking, my cheeks instantly flushing at how that sounds. I feel her giggle into the back of my neck. "I just mean you're a really good dancer, Britt."

Her arm loops around my waist and pulls me closer to her. Her nose nuzzles into my neck until her chin rests comfortably on my shoulder. I shiver, and it has nothing to do with being cold, but she reaches up for the blanket that's draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over us.

"I don't really like running, so I take dance classes as my cardio." Her arm circles my waist again, her body snuggling into mine. "Plus, you still take voice lessons, so it's like the same thing."

I nod my head in understanding, finding it hard to form words when I can feel the push and pull of her breathing against my back. It's almost like the rocking of a boat, and I find it soothing in ways that make me cuddle back into her, my hand coming down to rest over hers on my stomach.

"I like taking naps with you," she breathes into the skin of my shoulder. Somehow it sounds like she means so much more than that. But maybe I'm just hoping it means more.

"Me too," I whisper, tucking my chin to my chest as I let myself relax into her and drift away with her, to whatever dream she's willing to take me to.

It could be the worst nightmare and I wouldn't care. I'd follow her anywhere.

* * *

I'm startled awake when I feel four sets of claws pounce on my head, followed by the swooshing of a tail. I scream out a little before I realize it's just the devil. I feel Brittany giggle behind me. I don't even think her eyes are open, but somehow she knows and thinks it's just freaking hilarious. "She likes you," she mutters, snuggling into me further.

"She has a funny way of showing it," I grumble, turning slightly to watch as Princess Peach climbs over Brittany's head, much gentler I might add, and curls up on the arm of the couch above us, her front paws and head sprawled over blonde hair. It's probably the cutest thing I've ever seen, and I don't hesitate to reach for my phone on the coffee table and snap a picture of them over my shoulder, both sets of blue eyes closed and hidden behind pale skin and fur.

My heart takes flight and I'm positive I never want it to come back if it means I get more of this. More of Brittany and sleeping kittens and perfect lazy afternoons.

I can't help but want to share this beautiful picture, and quickly tweet it with the caption _Catnaps_. It doesn't take long for replies to pour in, wondering whom the blonde hair belongs to since Brittany's face is mostly hidden in shadow. I smile and put my phone back on the coffee table, loving how I can have this perfect little secret, even when I'm sharing it with the world.

Brittany stirs behind me, her fingers gripping at my stomach as her nose brushes along my shoulder and up my neck. "Sleep more please." Her voice is thick with sleep and I'm happy that these parts of her I can keep to myself. The way her brow quirks in protest of waking up, and the way her lips thin as she tries to suppress a yawn. It makes me want to turn over in her arms and kiss the sleep from her lips.

"Yes ma'am," I say instead, allowing this perfect moment to wash over me and stay as long as possible.

* * *

I wake to the soft hum of some kind of lullaby, Brittany's soft fingers tracing invisible patterns into my arm. I can tell she's trying hard not to wake me by how gentle she's being, her fingertips barely running over my skin, and it almost makes me want to feign sleep so I can let her continue forever.

But she must hear the change in my breathing, because her fingers stall halfway up my arm, and I feel her smile into the crook of my neck. It sends a shiver of something indescribable down my spine, and when her lips press softly to the skin of my shoulder, I'm convinced I'm still dreaming.

"Santana," she whispers, her hand coming down to wrap around my middle like it was when we fell asleep.

I don't answer as I smile a little, snuggling into the couch.

"I know you're awake silly," she coos, kissing my shoulder again, this time closer to my neck. My stomach jolts and I clench my thighs together, her kiss running through my veins like heroin.

The day Brittany plays fair will be the day Hell freezes over.

I groan into the cushion, refusing to wake up, until she's tickling my stomach and sides, forcing me to turn in her arms so her hands rest at my back.

"Hi," she greets with the most innocent smile. "I smell like Lord Tubbington after he's done his morning exercises." She scrunches her nose like she actually _does_ smell like a sweaty, overweight cat, and the urge to let out an adoring laugh overwhelms me.

She couldn't be further from the truth. Even after ballet class she smells like warm brown sugar and sweet vanilla.

I stare at her in disbelief, like it's actually impossible for her to be anything but perfect, and I wish I could kiss the truth into her skin. But I can't, so I'm left staring, hoping she sees what I see reflected in my eyes.

"Do you have anything else to do today?" she asks after a moment, her finger stroking softly along my back. I shake my head, hoping she doesn't either so we can just lie here, exchanging soft touches and even softer smiles.

Her eyes flutter up to where Princess Peach is still sleeping soundly on the arm of the couch, more curled into herself, before falling back to mine. "We should continue where we left off with One Tree Hill," she begins, but then her eyes go wide and her lips split into an ample grin. "We can take the DVDs on tour with us. It'll be something we can do together on our days off."

Images of lounging with Brittany in various hotel rooms, cuddled under white sheets and watching drama unfold in Tree Hill as strange cities come alive around us sounds like a vacation I never knew I wanted or needed.

I don't know how to respond to her without sounding flustered like a love struck teenager hit with cupid's arrow. It doesn't make sense how much I've fallen for her in such a short amount of time. It doesn't make sense that she's managed to come into my life and make herself at home, like she belongs here, or as if she was always supposed to be in it. And it certainly doesn't make sense that the way I feel about her is beyond anything I've ever felt for my previous boyfriends.

It really doesn't compare actually, and it terrifies me. Boys always came and went, and I never had a problem with that. But with her, the mere idea that one day Brittany could walk out of my life like them makes my heart physically hurt.

I shudder at that thought. The fear of her leaving and the realization that I may like her more than I originally thought overwhelms me, forcing my heart to beat against my ribs like the loudest of drums.

She notices, her eyes narrowing as they glance down to my chest and back up to my eyes, questioning and soft in the way only Brittany's eyes can be. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to make you upset. We don't have to watch –"

"No." I shake my head quickly before tucking it under Brittany's chin, fitting there like it has never known a safer place to be. "That sounds perfect," I mumble a moment later as her hands rub up and down my back, soothing and gentle, calm and protective. Like she's promising something neither of us are ready for.

She hugs me close, the slow and steady thrum of her pulse echoing in my ear where it rests against her neck. Promise or not, I don't think I've ever felt more cherished in my life.

* * *

"What the hell are you listening to?" Quinn asks with such distaste. Her nose is scrunched and lips pursed as if she's tasted something severely bitter, and all I can do is roll my eyes at her.

I focus back on the road, swatting her hand away when she reaches to change the song. "Brittany made it for me," I snarl, quickly biting down on my tongue when I feel Quinn's inquisitive gaze trained on the side of my face as I drive.

"She made you a mix tape?" I can tell she's trying to hold back her laughter, and it only makes me more aggravated.

"Maybe," I say past clenched teeth, looking at her out of the corner of my eye. Her smirk and quirked eyebrow mock me from where she sits in the passenger seat, and I wish I could smack the look from her face. I hate when she teases me about Brittany, mostly because I don't know what exactly is going on between Brittany and me, and every time I say something about her or something she's done for me, Quinn acts like I've given her the greatest birthday gift.

"How cuuute," she draws out, and the urge to smack her returns.

"Quinn, I swear to god," I sneer. Sometimes I really hate her.

"Calm down Joey. Did Dawson piss in your coffee this morning, or have you just completely forgotten how to take a joke," she scoffs. My anger fades immediately, realizing that I'm taking out my uncertainty over Brittany on Quinn. But I have too much pride to apologize, so we sit in silence, eyes trained to the road as we head toward Sam's house for dinner.

I know Quinn didn't do anything I wouldn't normally do to her if she were in my position, but there's just something about her poking fun at mine and Brittany's complicated and undefined whatever that makes it harder to swallow. It's like her teasing is just a constant reminder that this is all so new and unknown, and that makes it harder to joke about.

"I think it's cute by the way," Quinn barely whispers minutes later, her eyes still fixed out the window. I turn my head and see the hints of a sincere smile, the last of my outburst diminishing.

"Me too," I admit, mirroring Quinn's smile when she turns to face me.

"But I'm not so sure about her taste in music." Her distaste is back, but it's more diluted and a little quizzical, like she genuinely doesn't understand.

It's not that Brittany's choice of music isn't good, it's just different from what Quinn and I usually listen to, and that much is obvious from Quinn's constant display of obvious dislike.

"She likes music she can dance too," I say, blushing a little at the reason why Brittany enjoys it.

Quinn looks at me expectantly, but I don't explain further. It's not my place to tell Quinn what Brittany does, and I think it's fun to watch Quinn squirm in her seat when she realizes the next song on the CD is the same as the one before, loud bass and fast lyrics.

"Sam says she's really good. Apparently she has this stage presence that makes her stand out," Quinn tells me, and my body vibrates in affection at Sam's praise of Brittany.

I wonder for a moment if Sam has told Quinn about Brittany's job, and that's why Quinn is saying something, but the sincerity in her voice makes it seem genuine. There's nothing but admiration, and I can't help the dopey grin that spreads across my face, my whole body feeling lighter and happier without even trying.

I'm positive Quinn can see the shift in my attitude, but she doesn't say anything. Instead she turns to face out the window again, her face a little more solemn. "I need to tell you something," she says so quietly I'm positive I wouldn't have heard it if the CD wasn't changing songs.

The smallness of her voice makes me bristle a little. She sounds apologetic, guilty even. My mind races to try and figure out what would have Quinn acting so repentant, but it comes up blank.

She's quiet for a long time, her eyes purposely avoiding looking anywhere but the passing houses out the passenger window. It isn't until we've pulled up to Sam's house that she snaps out of her daze, her eyes quickly flicking from the house to me, wide and regretful.

"Quinn, what is it?" I ask now, a little hesitant as I put the car in park.

She shakes her head, a fake smile pulling at her lips. "It's nothing. Never mind," she says quickly, swiping her hand through the air like she's actually wiping away her earlier statement. It doesn't erase it though, but the frightened look on her face is practically begging me to drop it.

"Okay," I concede.

We both know it's not. It's obvious whatever it is is still plaguing her every thought. Her insincere smile grows by a fraction, and I try to return it, but it seems like a ridiculous game. I told Quinn about Brittany. She should be able to trust me with her secrets.

"Let's go before Sam becomes a little girl about his burgers getting cold," she laughs out, and it's not even a little bit sincere. It makes me sad, but it's impossible to make Quinn talk when she doesn't want to. She thinks I'm stubborn, but usually when she begs and pleads for a while, I'll get so angry and snap out what's on my mind. But not Quinn. She's like those hermit crabs that hide in their pretty shells all the time. No amount of poking or coaxing is going to get her to come out, and I'd rather keep all my fingers intact.

Sam greets us at the door, and when his eyes meet Quinn's, they're strained and hopeful, and a little piece of Quinn's puzzle is revealed. Her and Sam probably got in a fight about something and she's refusing to forgive him to teach him a lesson. Sometimes I swear she thinks Sam is like her personal golden retriever, and I wonder when she's going to realize she can't really train him to be her perfect best friend.

Sam's gullible, but he's not a fucking dog.

I give him an apologetic smile as I walk past him, sorry for whatever is going on between them because we both know Quinn will let it go eventually.

Besides, I want to spend a night with my best friends having fun and teasing them about all the awesome things they're going to miss since they're not coming on tour with me, so Quinn really needs to get over her shit. I'm about to tell Quinn as much when she ruffles through Sam's hair and asks if dinner's ready, warning him that it better not be cold.

I still don't think it's very sincere, and it's quite obvious she's trying to hide something, but I'm grateful she's at least trying to keep this dinner as pleasurable as possible. It's so much more fun beating them both in Call of Duty when she's not already pissed off because of her insane mood swings.

* * *

"Ugh," I groan out in frustration. I'm tired, and so sick of going over this choreography that I could almost cancel the whole damn show. I know every dancer is sick of going over it too, but I can't help that I keep messing it up. I'm not a trained dancer, and I would really like to yell that in all of their faces with the way they're looking at me.

Well all of them except for one. Every time I catch Brittany's eye, she gives me the softest smile. As if she's telling me that I'm doing fine and I shouldn't get so flustered.

By the thirtieth run through, I tell everyone they can go home. Their sighs of gratitude just aggravate me more for some reason. They act like I've been purposely messing up so we can all spend more time together like a fucking girl scouts huddled around a campfire. I should make them all sing one of my songs and see if they can do it perfectly the first day they learn it.

I plop down on the floor of the dance studio where we've been rehearsing and take a much-needed sip of water. I'm exhausted, but I refuse to go home until I can run though this dance without messing it up.

I close my eyes and just try to relax for a minute, and almost choke on the water in my mouth when I hear light footsteps behind me. I snap my eyes open and jerk my head towards the noise, only to find Brittany walking towards me. The light sheen of sweat across her skin makes me more frustrated, but in a completely different way.

"I didn't mean to scare you," she says sweetly, sitting down next to me.

I shake my head and stick my legs out in front of me. "I just thought everyone went home." She copies me and juts her legs out in front of her, stretching out much further than mine. She rocks her heels back and forth on the ground, and I have trouble keeping from appreciating the very small shorts she's wearing and the loose tank top that barely covers her sports bra underneath.

I lick my lips before looking away.

"Do you want to practice it some more?" she asks, her voice soft and hesitant. I look up at her and she smiles. "I mean, I can help you, if you want."

I don't know why she's being so quiet and unsure. I saw her while we were dancing. She was definitely one of the better ones, just like Sam said. I realize she's being timid because of me. She doesn't want to upset me, and I let out a sigh at how sweet she's being.

"You don't have to." I don't want to bother her by making her help me. She doesn't deserve to spend her time off in rehearsal when she could probably dance the whole show with only a day's worth of practice.

"I want to," she lets out in an honest breath, her finger poking at my hand on the floor between us. I look down at it and watch as it shakes against my knuckles as she lets out tiny giggles. "Come on. I bet you just needed a little break, and now you'll get it in no time."

I'm not sure about that, but something about having Brittany help me, just the two of us, sets my skin on fire with nerves and unbridled desire.

She hops to her feet and holds her hand out for me. I smile up at her before placing my hand in hers, allowing her to pull me up. "Okay, what part are you having the most trouble with?" she asks as she rolls her neck and I hear it pop.

I tell her and watch as she nods her head in understanding. My nerves fade a little when she stretches her arms above her head and the strip of stomach she exposes has my desire taking center stage. For a moment I forget why she's stretching, and just watch as her muscles tense and tease me from where she stands.

"Okay, well why don't we run through the chorus that runs into the bridge, and take it from there." I'm instantly reminded of the reason she's stretching, and my eyes blink back up to hers, a knowing smirk plastered on her face.

I blush and nod, and she moves beside me. We lock eyes in the mirrors lining the far wall, and she begins to count off the dance steps. I watch her instead of focusing on myself, because it's nearly impossible not to be hypnotized by her when she dances. I end up fumbling with the footing at one of the turns, and have to bite my tongue from shouting out in frustration.

She stops counting and turns to face me, a sheepish smile on her face, as if she's trying to keep me from getting upset. Somehow it's working, and I hate her for it.

Except I don't. Not at all.

"Do you mind if I just watch you this time to see where you're messing up?" she asks. Her voice is still so quiet and unsure, and I can tell she's trying so hard not to upset me. She just genuinely cares, and I'm not sure whether that makes things better or worse.

She counts off for me as I go through it, and when I stumble at the same part, she nods her head and gives me the softest look I've ever seen. "I think I see why you're having trouble," she comments as she moves closer to me. I suck in a deep breath, my heartbeat growing quicker as she comes to stand right in front of me. "When you're moving out of count five, your feet are getting tangled. So why don't you try doing this instead."

I watch as she does the same choreography, but changes up some of the feet movement between the counts I'm having trouble with. I briefly wonder if it's going to be okay for my steps to be slightly different than the rest, but the changes aren't that obvious.

"Does that make sense?" She's still standing in front of me when I nod, and she starts counting the steps again. This time I focus on my footing, trying to remember what she just showed me, and just about make it through the whole thing. This time my body decides it doesn't know how to do one of the last steps, and it's getting harder and harder not to get embarrassed in front of her. She's so good at this, like her body was literally made to move and dance beautifully, and I'm lucky if I don't end up looking like a fish flopping around on dry land.

"I have an idea," she says as she steps forward. "Maybe it'll help if I lead you." I'm not sure what she means by that, until she's somehow in back of me, her hands on my hips and pushing them back into her. "Feel how my legs bend so my hips can move," she instructs, moving her body in the way she's describing.

It should probably really help to be taught this way, but I'm having trouble breathing let alone moving the way I'm supposed to. Using her hips as a guide doesn't help when it just feels like she's grinding against me from behind, and I have to gulp back noises that are threatening to bubble up from my throat.

She doesn't stop moving until I somehow manage to follow along, then she's back to standing beside me, and my head's spinning from the rush sensations tickling over and under my skin.

"Let's go through the whole thing one more time, then I'll buy you ice cream." She's smiling that sweet smile again, and I feel drunk all of a sudden.

"Ice cream?" I question. Something about being drunk and ice cream sparks in my mind, but I can't seem to figure out the connection before she's giggling beside me.

"Or whatever you want," she smirks before focusing her attention on us through the mirrors again. She waits till I turn as well, winks at me through the glass, and then starts the count.

I don't think I breathe through the whole routine, but when I finish without a slew of slurs or tripping feet, I can't hold back how happy I feel. I turn to her and I know I'm smiling too wide because my eyes slip shut in elation. Before I know it, warm arms wrap around my waist, and I'm hoisted into the air as Brittany spins me in a tiny circle, her sweet giggle echoing off the walls of the room.

She puts me down, but keeps her hands on my waist. My eyes drop to her still heaving chest, and my stomach coils at the mist of sweat coated over her skin as she breathes in and out. I know I'm breathing hard too, and I'm not sure whether it's from the dancing or from her proximity and the way she's looking at me. Her eyes are dark like the underside of a rock in a wild stream, and I swallow at the sudden heat I feel as my heart starts drumming against my chest. I don't know what to do. I want to kiss her. I want to wrap my arms around her neck and just kiss her and never stop, but I still don't know what she wants or how she feels.

I feel like I should just say something really stupid to break the awkward silence of us just standing here staring at each other.

I open my mouth to do just that, when her hands squeeze at my hips, her fingers digging into my skin. My heart beats faster, this time lower in my belly.

"Britt," I breathe out in a squeak. I lick my lips as my mouth closes, and watch as Brittany's tongue mirrors the action. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand here like this, both of us sweating and holding on to each other without exploding.

Before I can say anything else though, her lips are pressing against mine and I'm pretty sure I end up exploding anyways. I close my eyes and stand frozen for a moment, shocked and slightly nervous. But she kisses me a little harder, more insistent, and my body wakes like it finally knows what it's supposed to do. Like a flower waiting for the perfect moment to bloom, its petals opening to welcome the sun it's been longing for.

My hands reach for her hips to pull her closer, as my lips part to wrap around her bottom one. I feel a vibration of a hum as her fingers tickle across my lower back, and I swear she's trying to kill me.

The kiss doesn't deepen, but her lips pillow mine until I need to pull away, desperate for fresh air and a clear head. Her eyes are now clear blue, like the shallows of the ocean, and I try to find something to hold on to in them so my breathing can return to normal.

I'm not sure whether kissing Brittany is the best thing or the worst thing, because now I'm not sure if I can ever stop kissing her. It's like a flame that's been stoked to life deep within, so fierce and hot that it burns and burns. I don't know how to put it out, and I'm not sure I want to even if I did know.

"Santana?" Brittany's voice is so quiet, like a mouse eluding a watchful cat, and I have no choice but to lean up on my toes just a little to kiss her again, quick and soft.

"I uh…" she whispers against my lips, the warmth of her breath coating mine like sweet honey. "I've been wanting to do that for a long time," she admits. I close my eyes as she pulls back and kisses my forehead, sweet and gentle like she's saying so much without saying anything at all.

"What does that mean exactly," I find myself saying before I can stop. Her eyes open and she looks down at me, into me like she's searching me again. She seems to find something, because she smiles, slow and soft at first, until it grows and crinkles around her eyes.

"It means I wanted to kiss you," she giggles out. Her giddiness slowly fades as she brings her finger up to push a lock of hair behind my ear. She's serious again, and she's more like the ocean than anyone or anything I've ever met, constantly changing with such quickness and grace, like rolling waves between high and low tide. "Does it have to mean more than that right now?" she asks with complete sincerity.

I suck in a deep breath, eyes flicking between hers as I slowly shake my head. "No. It doesn't." I smile to let her know I'm being honest, and she mirrors it almost automatically.

"Okay." Her smile broadens as she bounces up on her toes, like a child that's just been given permission to have ice cream and only ice cream for dinner. She kisses the tip of my nose in a string of giggles, before pulling away from me and skipping over to the side of the room where her water bottle is. I watch her in a trance, hypnotized and spellbound, like I have no choice but to allow my eyes to follow her every move.

My stomach is in knots, and my head feels like it's full of tiny air bubbles, and I know it has nothing to do with all the dancing I've been doing. I feel excited and nervous, like all my body wants to do is keep kissing Brittany forever and ever, but there's something in the back of my mind that's telling me I can't. I don't know which to listen to, so I settle for watching her stretch out her limbs, her body twisting and contorting in ways that would probably be painful for me, but look effortless for her.

My lips still tingle from the ghost of hers, making it hard to concentrate on anything else, like stretching out my own sore joints, or even listening to what she's currently saying.

"What?" I stammer, heat pooling over my cheeks when she stares at me in that way she does when she thinks I'm being cute and funny. Mostly I'm just embarrassed and flustered, and I try to shake the remnants of the kiss from my mind so I can focus on her.

"I think kissing makes you loopy," she giggles, popping her neck from side to side. She jumps to her feet, grabbing the water bottle as she goes, and hops back toward me. "Here," she hands the bottle to me, her eyes soft and caring. I take it without hesitating, a small smile curling over my lips. She watches as I sip from it, her own vibrant and bubbly smile bright upon her face. "I asked if you were excited for the tour next week."

I gulp down the water in my mouth, and almost choke on it when she snakes her hands around my waist, palming the small of my back and pulling me into her front. She laughs at what I presume to be a startled look on my face, shaking her head at me like I'm being silly again. "I am. I'm excited to dance on stage with you," she says honestly, stealing the breath from my lungs as I stand in her arms and try to keep my body from melting into her completely.

She's never played fair, and I don't think she's going to start any time soon.

"You're gonna be amazing," I breathe out, watching as the corners of her eyes lift in a genuine smile.

"Can I kiss you again?" she asks breathless, her pupils blown in blatant desire. She's bashful now, but still confident as her finger strokes along my lower back. I nod slowly, not trusting my mouth to do anything but kiss her in return. She draws me closer to her, her lips pulling mine along like linked hands, and I'm not sure how I've gone so long without knowing what it's like to kiss her. My tongue itches at the roof of my mouth to taste her, but I clamp my lips shut around hers, still hesitant to push my luck. Kissing Brittany is like the best game of Russian Roulette, and I'm afraid the barrel of her gun isn't completely empty.

What if she just likes kissing me? What if this doesn't mean anything to her? Does it even mean anything to me?

I don't have answers, and she already said she doesn't want to talk about it right now, so I'm more than content to let her have the lead.

She hums and I feel it vibrate around my heart, like the pluck of a guitar string, tuning mine to match the beat of hers.

She pulls away with one last quick peck, giggling when I run my tongue along my lips to taste what she's left behind.

"I gotta go. Tonight's my last shift at the club." She squeezes my hips as her hands slide off my body, and it's really unfair how easily my skin heats under her touch like a lit trail of gasoline.

"Okay," I reply, trying to hide my disappointment, even though I'm slightly happy I can't invite her over for that ice cream she promised. I'm not sure I would be able to keep our kisses friendly if we were sleeping in the same bed again.

I have no idea what any of this means, and I don't know if we're now just friends who sometimes kiss, or if our kisses are more than that. Is she going to continue kissing other people? Am I?

I think I'm more confused than I was before tonight, but I wouldn't take it back for anything. I don't think anyone would take back kissing Brittany.

She gathers her things while I continue to stand there like an idiot, smiling at her as she moves like I've forgotten how to function properly. She doesn't say anything more, but giggles against my cheek as she kisses it softly in goodbye.

I don't know whether to die in embarrassment because of how stupid I acted, or just die because I'm pretty sure I never want to kiss anyone else besides Brittany again, and I'm not ready to truly think about what that means.


	9. Chapter Eight

A/N: It's really unacceptable how long this took me, and I'm so very sorry. I will try super hard to be quicker about updating. Thank you Bekah and Charlie. Also, I've changed the dates of the story. It has nothing to do with the actual plot, just purely because I want to be able to use current songs. Thank you so much for your patience and understanding!

* * *

**Chapter Eight – I've Got A Funny Little Feeling**

_Los Angeles, June 2013._

* * *

The curtains go up and I can hear the crowd, their voices rising and carrying through the arena like the constant drumming of a stampede. I shake my arms out, ridding the last of my nerves as I take a step towards the stage. Just as I'm about to step through the black curtain shrouding the chaos backstage, warm hands wrap around my waist from behind.

"Break a leg," Brittany nips into my neck, sealing it with a quick press of her lips before pulling away. She spins me in her arms, giggling as I stumble over my own feet as I turn to face her. "Maybe I should just tell you good luck because we both know how clumsy you are, and I really don't want you to break your leg." She smiles softly at first, the corners of her lips barely curled, until her nose crinkles and she's slyly grinning at me.

There's a flash of want in her eyes, like a cloud across a clear sky, and it causes a shiver to ghost its way down my spine. "Brittany," I breathe out in warning. Her lips twitch like they're itching to erase the distance between us.

"I know," she smirks as she steps back a little. "But," she begins as she leans in to whisper in my ear. "Just know I really want to kiss you right now. And I'm going to be thinking about kissing you the whole time we're on that stage." She pulls away with a little giggle, winking before she spins on her heels and walks away, leaving me frozen and more than a little turned on.

I'm not sure how she expects me to go perform now without messing up, when my head is so high in the clouds. Something settles low in my belly, urging me forward, determined to not only do this for myself now, but for her as well. I've never wanted someone to be proud of me the way that I wish for her to be. To be sharing the stage with her is something I can't name, but it's there, blooming beneath the surface, ready to paint itself known across my skin.

* * *

The show is almost a blur with the way Brittany and I trade sneaky smiles and lingering stares. Every time she catches my eye on stage, a buzzing ripples down my spine, intensifying the rush I'm feeling with each lyric I sing.

I feel like I'm flying, jumping from cloud to cloud, hoping I don't stumble.

The crowd cheers as the final song ends, and when I skip off stage, she's waiting there with sweaty cheeks and labored breaths. "That was…" she begins, but seems to not know how to finish her thought. I nod breathlessly, too happy and flustered to say anything. "You were amazing," she adds, her hand coming up to poke at my side.

"Not as good as you, " I answer automatically. Her face splits into appreciative shock for a quick second, before falling to her too soft smile, and I have to look away in sudden bashfulness.

"Not true. No one can measure up to you." Her voice is quieter now, like it's a secret for only us to hear.

I wish we weren't surrounded by other people, and that I could wrap my arms around her and she could kiss me silly, until my head's fuzzy and I feel it in my toes.

The sudden twinkle in her eyes tells me she wants the same, only making it harder for me to keep from doing just that.

"We need to celebrate, because I have way too much energy to just go home and sleep," she suggests, and I'm nodding without even knowing what she has in mind. Celebrating with Brittany sounds like the perfect way to end opening night.

* * *

Somehow celebrating means going back to my house, and drinking while playing a game one of Brittany's friends brought called Loaded Questions. We sit around my coffee table, Sam and Quinn off to my left, Brittany and two of her friends to my right, and I don't think I've ever laughed so much in my life.

Brittany's answers have my stomach hurting with how cute and funny she is, and even Quinn seems to be letting loose and having fun. Every now and then I see Sam lean over and whisper something to her, but I choose to ignore it for now and focus on the way Brittany's pinky keeps nudging mine where it rests on the floor between us.

Brittany's friend Hilarie picks up the next card and reads the question after I return with another round of beer for everyone.

"If you could be President for a day, what's the first thing you'd do?"

Brittany immediately starts scribbling down her answer on her paper, her tongue poking out between her teeth as she concentrates. I can feel Quinn staring at me as I watch Brittany, and when I turn my head, she's looking at me like I'm the most ridiculous person she knows.

I probably am.

My cheeks grow warm and I duck my head to write down my answer. Once everyone is done, Hilarie collects them and shuffles the papers. "Have sex in the Oval Office," she reads first, and her eyes immediately shoot to Brittany, whose nose and ears are tinged the most beautiful shade of pink.

"What?" she says nonchalantly as she shrugs her shoulders. "Any of you who say you wouldn't are lying. Not that that answer's mine or anything, I'm just saying."

I don't know how she does it. How she can be so innocently sweet one second, and unbelievably sexy the next. It's the biggest enigma. I don't think I'll ever understand how so much sexual confidence and simple purity can be wrapped up into one person.

By the fifth round of questions, Princess Peach comes out from hiding and curls up on Brittany's lap. It's a little unfair how impossibly cute the two of them are together.

When Brittany's friends decide to meet people at a club downtown, I expect Brittany to join them, but she rests against my couch and sighs with content. "I'm happy here." My stomach flutters, flutters, flutters at her words.

We move off the floor after they leave, Sam grabbing Quinn and Brittany another beer before he sits on the recliner next to the couch.

"I'm sad you guys aren't coming with us on Friday," I pout. I lean against the arm of the couch and stretch my feet out towards Brittany, who instantly picks them up and puts them in her lap. I look back and forth between Sam and Quinn, but neither of them seems to care. I can't help but smile.

"I know. I wish I could. Vegas is like a palace compared to my office," Quinn answers around a mouthful of beer. She lays on the love seat, sprawled and content, and it really is going to be weird not having her around for the next couple of months.

"Well you two will just have to take care of each other while I'm gone," I tell them, not missing the look they give each other. It's hard to ignore it this time, and it's so obvious that something is going on between them, but firm hands start massaging my feet and I instantly forget about everything else but Brittany.

"Before I forget," Sam begins, tearing his eyes from Quinn to look at me. "Micah wanted to know if you were still up for collaborating on a song after your tour. He suggested releasing it as a single instead of on either of your albums, but just let me know so we can start running ideas."

"Okay." I shouldn't feel guilty about Sam mentioning Micah in front of Brittany, but for some reason I want to squeeze her hand or let her know that it's nothing to worry about. But Brittany doesn't seem to really notice my slight discomfort, because her hands never falter as they work over the muscles in my feet.

Of course she doesn't know about Micah, but something tells me she wouldn't really be upset even if she did.

It feels like the most natural thing to do when I ask Brittany to spend the night after Quinn and Sam leave, and the way she smiles and carries Princess Peach to bed with us has me flying higher and higher.

* * *

Quinn takes me for breakfast two days before we're set to leave for Vegas, and I really should be packing for the tour, but it's hard to turn down eggs and bacon, especially when Quinn offers to pay.

"Can we talk about the elephant in the room, or are we still going to pretend it doesn't exist?" I ask over the steam from the mug of coffee in my hands. I blow on it as I watch her furrow her brow, taking a sip as her face goes from confused to sharp and guarded.

"What? The fact that you lied to me and didn't tell me the real way you and Brittany met?" she spits out, and I know she's aware of what I really wanted to talk about and she's just being defensive, but my stomach falls at her accusation. I didn't lie on purpose, it just wasn't my place to tell Quinn what Brittany did.

Apparently Sam didn't feel the same way.

"Sam shouldn't have told you."

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, and sometimes I wonder why I love this girl so much when she can be such a bitch.

"Quinn, if Brittany wanted you to know, she would have told you. I didn't think it was my story to tell, so please get off your high horse and stop acting like I lied about Brittany being a serial killer or some shit."

She stares at me for a moment, hard and unwavering, before she goes back to eating her breakfast without another word. Sometimes I really don't understand Quinn Fabray at all.

But then I see the dark circles under her eyes and the way the corners of them are still red from obvious sleepless nights she spent crying, and I realize I know her too well. She's deflecting because whatever is going on with her and Sam is more than I probably realize.

"I don't care if you like Trouty, by the way. I just wanted to tell you that you two are pretty obvious. You're both my best friends, and adults, so you can do whatever you want."

She swallows the bite of eggs on her fork before looking back up at me. She clears her throat, her eyes so wide and scared. I want to hug her and tell her to stop being dumb, because I'm sure whatever her and Sam did is not going to start the apocalypse.

"Sam and I slept together," she blurts out.

"Holy shit," I almost yell, quickly covering my mouth when I look around the restaurant. Her eyes are still wide and scared, but she's also looking at me like everything depends on how I react to what she's saying. "I'm sorry." I assumed they had made out, or one of them walked in on the other changing or something, but I didn't expect this. As far as I know, Quinn's only slept with one other guy from high school. "Were you guys, you know, safe?" She nods, and I find myself nodding along. "Okay, then what's the problem?"

She looks down at her lap and swallows hard, and the realization dawns on me. This is not how I pictured breakfast going when I woke up this morning, and quite frankly I'd rather still be lying in bed, or at least packing, than be watching Quinn act like she just committed the worst sin.

I can see it written across her face, the way she can't stop fidgeting or picking at her nails. Her mom's voice is screaming in her head, and she's doing a horrible job at keeping it quiet.

"Quinn, you're an adult. You're allowed to enjoy sex without having to go to confession."

"He's my best friend, and we were drunk. I hardly think that constitutes enjoying it," she sneers back. She sounds like she's on the verge of crying, and it's painful to watch her try and hold it all in. It hurts to watch her hate herself, but I've known Quinn too long to try and tell her that her mom had warped views on her daughter's future.

"Are you upset that it happened?" She shakes her head. "Then what's the problem?"

"He's my best friend," she breathes out, her bottom lip quivering.

"Again how is that a bad thing? Isn't every romantic comedy about someone falling in love with their best friend, and finding out they feel the same way?" I take another sip of my coffee and watch as something flashes across her face. When her eyes look back at me, they're the saddest shade of hazel, one I've only seen a handful of times.

"He doesn't love me," she almost cries, and I don't have to ask how she knows if that's true or not. The hardness of her face has faded, and now she sits in front of me so broken, and I finally put the last piece of Quinn's puzzle together.

"But you love him."

I don't have to see the tiny nod she gives in return to know it's true.

"When did this happen?" I feel like I've missed an important part of Quinn's life, because it's rare for Quinn to fall for someone, and I feel like I should have seen the changes in her demeanor.

But she shakes her head, blowing on the steam of her own coffee. "I know what you're thinking. And don't. I'm not telling you this to feel guilty for not knowing. I'm telling you because you're my best friend, and he's yours, and I don't want things to be weird between the two of you."

"I wouldn't let it be. But Quinn, Sam cares about you. How do you know –"

"Can we drop it now?" she states more than asks, and I know when I shouldn't push Quinn. Not unless I want this whole restaurant to know something about Brittany and I, because when Quinn feels like she's backed into a corner, she lashes out like a scared animal.

I know because I do the same.

We finish our breakfast in relative silence, and it sucks that this is the last time I'll see Quinn until she flies in for the show in New York City.

The light smack to my head when I don't want to let her go in my driveway is enough to know she'll be alright though.

"We'll Skype. It's not like we're never going to see each other again," she jokes as she tries to pry herself from my hug.

"We better. Or I'm gonna hunt you down and unleash my ancestors' Latin rage on you."

She laughs and completely misses the point of me being one hundred percent serious. "Santana, your family is from Southern California. You've never been to any Hispanic countries. So please stop acting like you're part of some fierce Latina gang," she snickers, and I hate her so much that I have to pull her back in for another hug.

* * *

"Before we leave California, I want to show you one of my favorite places," I whisper, tickling down Brittany's arm with the pad of my finger. Lying with her like this, her arms and body wrapped around me like the softest shield, is something I don't think I'll ever get used to.

She nuzzles closer, her nose brushing along the curve of my shoulder until she's able to kiss against the base of my neck. "Where is it?" she breathes, her lips running up my neck in feather-light kisses. It's distracting, and she knows it. A swipe of her tongue has me shivering in her arms, and I hate that she knows exactly what to do to make me completely at her mercy.

We haven't really talked about what we're doing. We both just seem to be content to continue to explore what this development in our relationship is, simply enjoying lazy afternoon kisses and quick goodbye ones on public doorsteps under the shield of darkness. Sometimes when we're intertwined like we are now on my bed, I forget that it has to really mean anything at all. Sometimes it just feels right, and that's the only explanation I need at the moment.

But then a phone rings, or Quinn mentions about being careful, and I remember how private this whole thing has to be. Brittany seems to understand though, backing off significantly when we're around other people. It's sort of become an unspoken game, to see how far we can tease each other in public before one of us snaps and we have to excuse ourselves.

But when it's just the two of us, somehow labels and explanations don't need to be defined. Her hand against my stomach and my fingers tangled in her hair, seem like the most natural things to do.

Her lips still at my jaw, curling against my skin as she nips at it playfully. "Where'd you go?" she laughs as her fingers pinch at my stomach.

I squirm in her arms until I turn around to face her, her hands falling to palm against my back. Her teasing expression softens, and I lean up to press a kiss to her chin. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" she asks as she holds me closer, cradling me to her body, and I wish I could just lie here with her forever. I've never felt more relaxed and excited at the same time, and the way she's able to comfort me and drive me crazy instantaneously is the greatest confusion.

"Us," I answer before I can stop myself. My eyes dart away before I can see her reaction, but her fingers are pressing against my back, urging me to look back at her. When I do, she's smiling the softest and most genuine smile. She doesn't say anything, but the look in her eyes encourages me to explain a little. "What does…have you…" I swallow and shake my head. "I'm not good at this," I chuckle a little to try ease some of my embarrassment.

"Good at what? Talking?" she teases, tickling softly at the small of my back.

"Talking about stuff that matters," I admit shyly. I duck my head beneath her chin so she won't see my cheeks flush. But she shuffles down on the bed until we're eye level again, and her face is anything but joking now.

"Everything you say matters, Santana." Her voice is so sure, no ounce of the teasing she had a few moments ago, and I have to clutch at her shirt to keep from shaking.

I don't know how to explain how she makes me feel, and I don't quite understand how one person is able to make me feel so special. I want to tell her that she's the one who should feel special. That she should know how perfect and beautiful and sweet she is, but I can't seem to make my tongue work the way I want it to.

I look at her, her eyes piercing and gentle, and I snuggle closer without a second thought. "Can we talk when I take you to where I want to show you?" When she smiles that knowing smile, I tuck my head beneath her chin. She turns more on her back, pulling me with her until I'm half lying on top of her, my cheek pressed against her chest.

"Of course." She kisses the top of my head as her hands begin to snake up and down my back. The early afternoon sun casts bright yellow shadows over the walls of my bedroom, as I feel its heat play over my skin, melting away the goosebumps Brittany creates with each stroke of her fingers. "When are we gonna go?" she asks, startling me after I've let my eyes drift closed in complete serenity.

"What time is it now?" I mumble against her collarbone, letting my lips linger at the skin there as I feel her take in a breath beneath me.

"I think it's like one thirty," she breathes out, the warm air tickling across the side of my face.

I brush my nose along her neck, kissing her quick and soft. "We should leave in about three hours." She squirms a little, and I can feel her pulse pick up speed as her breathing gets a little erratic. I smile before kissing her again, longer and more open-mouthed.

She lets out an airy gasp, her fingers dipping underneath my shirt and digging into my back. My stomach jolts when I feel the hum of her small moan reverberate against my lips on her neck. We haven't done this before, never taking the kissing beyond playful and sweet. But I want to know what her skin tastes like, how it feels as it rolls over my tongue.

I don't know if that's okay though. I don't know what our boundaries are, or what she wants, and I'm still not sure if I have the courage to do what I want to do either.

So I settle for kissing her once more against the quick of her pulse, before snuggling back on top of her.

Her arms don't hesitate to wrap around me, and it feels good to know that she's okay with whatever we're doing. Even though she hasn't voiced it, the way she uses her body to communicate makes it easy to know what she wants.

Whether or not she feels the way I feel, or whether or not I'm even able to admit how I feel about her, the way our bodies so obviously want each other is hard to ignore.

* * *

It takes about an hour to drive there, but when I pull off the side of the road and begin to get out, she looks at me a little confused. I'm pretty sure she thought we were just taking the scenic route through Palos Verdes to get to Hermosa, not actually stopping on a random street near the cliffs of Palos Verdes. I smile at her surprise and get out of the car, watching as her confusion stays plastered to her face as she closes the passenger door behind her.

The breeze from the ocean whips at her hair, and the setting sun that frames her takes my breath away. It's like a scene straight out of a movie, and it's such a cliché that I laugh at my own ridiculousness, but it doesn't take away the fact that she is absolutely the most beautiful person I've ever met.

"Santana," she smiles after a moment, turning away from the ocean to look at me. "Don't get me wrong, I love the Pacific Ocean just as much as the next person, but what are we doing here?"

"I told you I want to show you something." I smile at her coyly, leading her from the car to a small trail through the overgrown grass. She doesn't question me further, simply hopping into step beside me, her knuckles grazing mine with each swing of her arms.

The lap of the ocean against the rocks meets our ears the closer we get to the cliffs, and the smell of salt invades my nose, instantly allowing the impending view to wash over me. A friend from high school first showed me this place when we were looking for somewhere to drink without our parents finding us, but the serenity and natural beauty of this spot has always brought me back. Especially when I'm having a particularly hard day, I drive here and watch as the sun explodes with colors as it sinks beneath the horizon of the ocean. And for a moment I'm able to forget about everything else, and just simply enjoy Mother Nature at its finest.

I've never wanted to share this spot with anyone else until now, and the prospect of Brittany viewing a place I come when I'm feeling particularly vulnerable both excites me and makes me incredibly nervous.

The air around us gets cooler the closer we get to the edge, and just as the sky around us begins to fade to beautiful strips of reds, purples, and oranges, we reach the tiny bench I've sat on many times before.

I watch her face as we sit, taking in the angry ocean over the cliff beneath us, and the vibrant sky above us, and watch as each and every shade of color reflects in her eyes.

I was oh so wrong. The view before us is nothing compared to the way it looks in her eyes. It's magnified yet softer, and I find my heart aching at the sheer beauty, and how each feature of her face is infinitely better than the setting sun.

"It's beautiful," she whispers, as if she's afraid the sound of her voice will scare it away.

"I know," I answer without taking my eyes off of her. She turns to me with a warm and knowing smile, and I feel my cheeks color, forcing me to swallow and look back out over the cliffs.

We sit in silence for a moment, until Brittany speaks while keeping her focus on the way the colors of the sun spread over the blue of the ocean. "Will you tell me what you were thinking about earlier?"

I momentarily forget what she's talking about, but when I remember, I feel a little bit of my relaxation tense up with nerves. It's so hard to put into words how I feel for Brittany, and it makes me incredibly worried that Brittany won't feel the same.

How do I feel?

I feel overwhelmed. I feel like since the moment Brittany walked into my life, I've felt happier and more content. I've felt excitement and confusion. I've wanted to hug her, kiss her, cuddle with her. I've wanted to talk to her every night before I went to bed, and I've wanted to help make her dreams come true.

What is all of that? Can all of that be summed up and defined by one word?

I don't know. And that's what makes it difficult to talk about. How can I ask Brittany how she feels about all of this when I can't put it into a few simple words?

"I'm just confused," I say instead, letting out a long sigh as I turn to look at her hesitantly.

I expect her to get a little hurt, or at least a little puzzled, but she doesn't. She actually nods in understanding, and I feel my heart thrum against my chest just once.

"I can tell," she admits softly, never taking her eyes from mine. My brow knits in uncertainty as I turn to face her completely, pulling my legs up on the bench so I can sit cross-legged. "It's okay to feel confused."

She makes it sound so simple. Maybe it is for her. "Have you, um, been with…a girl…before?" I stutter out. I wish I could stop my voice from shaking, but it seems like I've lost control over my body the day I met Brittany. Her eyes are still soft and strong as she nods, and my heart begins to hammer within my chest. "You have?"

"Santana we don't live in the 1900s anymore," she laughs, her slight reprimand making my cheeks grow warm. "It's quite common actually, especially in the dancing world."

I don't know whether I'm comforted from her admission, or more unsure. And to be honest, a little jealous of how easy things are for her. Maybe even a little jealous of the girl she was with before.

She mirrors my sitting position and takes my hands in hers, her thumb stroking over my knuckles when I stay silent.

"Do you think it's wrong to feel what you're feeling?" she asks, and I immediately shake my head. "It's okay if you do. I mean, you said you're religious, and a lot of religions label it as wrong, so I would understand –"

"I don't," I cut her off, because that much I do know. I may have questioned it at first, but I've come to realize that the way I feel for her, even if I can't define it, is definitely not wrong.

"Okay," she smiles and nods. She squeezes my hands a little tighter as her smile widens. "Well that's a start."

I let out a small laugh, relaxing at how comfortable she's making this conversation. "Can I ask you more questions?"

"Of course," she answers without delay.

My eyes drop to our linked hands, taking a moment to try and collect my thoughts. "You've had a boyfriend before, so are you bi or?" I ask as I look back up at her.

She shakes her head. "I like everyone," she says as she shrugs her shoulders, like her answer is the simplest thing she's ever said. "Can I ask you a question?" I nod with a hesitant smile, my stomach nervous all of a sudden. "Am I the first girl you've…" she trails off as I nod my head again. "Okay," she breathes, her thumb running over the back of my hand.

"Is that a problem?" I ask a little apprehensively.

She laughs at that. "Does it look like I have a problem with it?" I laugh too, because obviously she doesn't. "Santana, can I be honest with you?" Her voice is very soft, and I can't do anything but nod as I avert my gaze from hers. "I can tell you're a little scared, and that's okay," she says calmly, increasing her hold on my hands. "But I want you to know that I like you. A lot. And I'm okay with taking this slow if that's what you want."

My heart feels too big, or my chest feels too small, and I feel like I might cry. I look away because I don't want her to see my eyes water at her sweetness.

"I've wanted to kiss you for a while, but I didn't want to push you," she admits, and it only makes that too big feeling get even bigger.

"You can kiss me whenever you want," I breathe out before I can stop myself. It feels like I'm giving her permission to do more than just kiss me, and I hope she understands that I'd tell her if I didn't want to do something she wanted to do. I'm about to tell her this when she lets go of my hands and instantly cups my cheeks. She's pulling me toward her before I know it, her lips pressing against mine seconds later.

I'm pretty sure I let out a moan against her lips, but I can't find it in me to care or be embarrassed by it.

She parts her lips and my stomach tingles in anticipation of her tongue, but before the kiss can deepen, a dog barks in the distance and I remember exactly where we are.

We're not in the privacy of one of our bedrooms, and the thought of someone seeing us and taking a picture to sell to some gossip magazine, makes the good nerves in my belly turn sour. Like the beautiful butterflies have transformed into moths, and I pull away from her before I get lost in her and forget where we are again.

"I'm sorry," I quickly apologize when I see the questioning look on her face. "I know I said you can kiss me whenever, but—"

"Not in public," she finishes. I nod as my hands reach forward to squeeze at her calf. "It's okay. Slow, remember," she says simply with that small, sincere smile of hers, and it only makes me want to kiss her more.

She turns to look at the ocean, as the bottom of the sun begins to disappear under the horizon. I take a moment to just watch her, before I look out over the cliffs again.

"Thank you for bringing me here." Her hand reaches across the space between us, until she laces her fingers with mine. I'm pretty sure Brittany's just become my favorite person, and her company at my favorite place is a little overwhelming, and I feel the sudden urge to cry for no real reason, except the fact that I'm really, really happy. "And I'm really excited to embark on this journey with you," she adds with a squeeze to my hand.

Except it feels more like she's squeezing my heart, wrapping it in her hands to cradle gently and squeeze in time with everything sweet she says to keep it beating.

I'm not sure when I gave her my heart, but it feels sort of silly to ask for it back.

My only hope is that she doesn't drop it.

* * *

It's late by the time we make it back to her apartment, but she invites me in anyways. It's not until there's a strong smell of weed wafting in from the entryway, and a head of pink hair sticking out above the couch as we pass by, that I remember Brittany has a roommate that I've never met.

Brittany doesn't stop to introduce us though, and continues to lead me back through the hallway to her bedroom. Once the door is closed, she stuffs a towel in the crack at the bottom, and plugs her phone into a set of speakers.

I stay standing by the door watching her, and when she turns back around to face me, the folk music she's chosen drowning out the sounds of her roommate and the television from the living room, there's a smirk on her face I can't read. Her eyes have lost some of their twinkle from before, quickly replaced with a darker shade of blue and a clear streak of grey.

A shiver comes over me as she walks toward me, her hands instantly framing my hips once she's close enough to stand in front of me.

"Hi," she whispers in a soft giggle, the tips of her ears pink as she taps at the exposed skin of my waist above my jeans.

"Hi," I laugh back, the pit of my belly going tingly in anticipation. Her fingers dance over my hipbone playfully, and it tickles so badly, but I don't want her to ever stop.

"I'm going to kiss you now." Her voice lowers to an almost husk, and she's now gripping at my waist with a little more need than moments before. "I just wanted to tell you, so you could stop me in case you didn't want me to." She steps a little closer to me, the warmth of her breath puffing against my lips. She tilts her head and I close my eyes with a hard swallow. I can feel her mere millimeters from my mouth, but she doesn't close the distance.

I squirm and almost let out a childish whine, but I settle for a breathy call of her name, and she takes the hint. It's not begging, but it might as well be with how much I want her to just take charge and kiss me. To just wrap me up in her arms and lead me in whatever dance she wants, because I would follow her without any reservations.

I sigh against her mouth when she pulls back a little, and I don't have to open my eyes to know she's smiling at me. She dips her head close again and takes my bottom lip between hers, making my knees go weak as she sucks on it. My head feels like I've just downed ten shots without a chaser, and I don't think I'll be able to stay standing much longer if she continues to kiss me like this.

She must understand, because her hand flattens against my lower back, the other wound around the base of my neck, and she's leading me to her bed, our feet stumbling over each other in the process. She spins us and sits on the edge, pulling me with her until I'm sitting in her lap, my knees bracketing her thighs, and I'm absolutely positive that drunk feeling has consumed my entire body, making me tipsy and tingly all the way to the tips of my toes.

She moves away from my lips, pressing open-mouthed kisses along my jaw until she's nibbling at my ear. My body rolls against hers beyond my control, and I feel like I'm a passenger in my own body, completely at her mercy as she learns my body in ways I never knew.

"You're so sexy like this," she practically purrs into my ear. She kisses at a spot below it, and I really should be embarrassed by the sound I make as she kisses it again. "When you let yourself let go," she husks, before biting down on my skin, and I'm pretty sure I scream as pleasure shoots straight to my core.

I'm now completely convinced she knows exactly what she does to me, and the thought only turns me on more.

Her fingers rake down my back over my shirt, and I know we should be going slow, but I can't stop thinking about wanting her hands on my skin. She kisses back to my mouth, and this time she doesn't hesitate to part my lips with her tongue. I moan at the surprise, her mouth swallowing the sound as she licks at the back of my teeth.

I immediately forget how to breathe.

I don't think I knew what kissing was really like until this very moment.

And I'm absolutely positive Brittany could win an award for the way she kisses.

She kisses my mouth, but I feel it in my stomach. She kisses the corner of my lips, and I feel it in my toes. She kisses below my ear, and I feel it between my thighs.

I don't know how she does it, but I'm certain I could kiss Brittany for the rest of my life, and it would seem new every single time.

My hips roll against hers as she sucks on my tongue, encouraging me to deepen the kiss with her. I don't hesitate to push my tongue past her lips, and I'm more than thankful she's put on music to help drown out the noises I'm making.

Her fingers dip under my shirt, digging into my spine as she presses me closer to her. The velvet of her tongue slides along my bottom lip, and I don't think I've ever witnessed anything sexier in my life. My body is growing too warm, and I know I'm getting way too excited, and it's making me slightly ashamed.

I pull back from her, panting, and I can see the want dripping from her eyes, her chest heaving as much as mine. It's comforting to know I'm not the only one who feels a little disoriented from what we're doing.

"We…I…" I stutter out, trying to gather my scattered thoughts to form a complete sentence.

"Sorry," she mutters, and it's really cute how dark her cheeks color. "I said slow, but when I'm around you, I just…" Her eyes bore into mine, and the intensity of her stare forces goosebumps to rise over the back of my neck and down my arms. "I can't help it."

My heart jolts at her words, and something blooms and spreads within me, melting me and molding me to her in ways I'm unprepared for. It's like everything about her gives me reason to smile. And when I'm not around her, I feel like I'm missing something that I can't name.

The flutter of her eyelashes against her freckled cheeks, or the wisp of blonde hair around her ear. The way her lips part when she lets out an airy giggle, or the blue of her eyes in the dark of night. Her hip bones that peek out to say hello when she stretches, or the curve of her spine when she's bending down to scratch under Lord Tubbington's chin.

All of it put together creates this person I'm inexplicably drawn to. I've never felt so out of control in my life, and it's not until her hands rub at my back and down my thighs that I realize I'm shaking.

"Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?" The look on her face is full of worry, and I would do anything to keep that look from ever appearing on her face again.

"No." I shake my head, my brow knit together as I try and get a grip on what's going on inside of me. "No, I just…it's nothing." I shake my head again. I don't know how to explain to her that the simple thought of her has my heart beating erratically against my chest. I don't know how to tell her that her smile forces my stomach to cartwheel over and over again until I'm left feeling dizzier than I've ever felt. I don't know how to explain to her that her fingers tracing over my body sets my skin on fire.

None of it makes sense to me, so there's no way for me to explain it to her in a way that will make sense.

"Are you cold?" she asks softly, her palms rubbing over my skin as if she's personally trying to warm me up.

I nod because I don't know what else to do. It's not entirely a lie, and the way she wraps me in her arms makes me feel like it wouldn't matter if I had told her the complete truth or not. She would have hugged me either way, and there's no reason to worry her over my overwhelming confusion.

She maneuvers us until she's able to lay me down on her bed, her body slightly hovering over mine as she pulls the covers up over us. The look in her eyes is too much and not enough at the same time, all honey blue and tender care. Her blonde hair curtains around our faces as it falls from her shoulders, and everything about her takes my breath away. From the way she's half-smiling down at me, to the way her feet tangle with mine under the covers, and I don't know what to do.

How do you tell someone you've only known for a couple months that they're everything to you, without it sounding both crazy and absolutely terrifying?

I'm not sure when Brittany's tangled herself so irrevocably into my life, but I feel like I'm both flying and falling, and I'm not sure which one is more dangerous.

She leans down and kisses the tip of my nose before rolling onto her side, spooning me like it's how she's slept for years.

The thought of being able to sleep like this for years to come runs through my head, but I force it away before it can truly manifest itself into something meaningful.

"Goodnight Santana," she mumbles by my ear. Her arm wraps around my stomach and pulls me closer to her, and it doesn't take long for me to fall blissfully into sleep, her warmth carrying me from dream to dream, cloud to cloud.

* * *

There's a soft tapping at Brittany's bedroom door, followed by an annoyed meow, and Brittany's little giggle tickles across my neck as she stirs from her sleep. "Sounds like someone wants to join our slumber party."

"Tell him to get his own cuddle buddy," I groan as she untangles herself from me and gets up to let Lord Tubbington in. He saunters over to his perch by the window, and how he manages to jump up on that thing every night with how much weight he's carrying around every day is a mystery to me. He settles in, tucking his paws underneath his belly just as Brittany comes back to bed.

"I just had a really good idea," she whispers as her arm returns to rest around my waist, her hand flat against my stomach.

"I'm afraid to ask," I chuckle, snuggling into the warmth her body provides as my eyes slip closed again.

"We should take Lord Tubbington and Princess Peach on tour with us. They'll be like our own personal groupies, and that way you don't have to find someone to watch her, and I don't have to worry that Jordyn's starving him while I'm gone."

"He'd have to go months without food to starve Britt," I joke, squirming when she pinches at my belly.

"I'm serious," she insists, and it's hard not to agree with her. I really didn't want to give someone free rein of my house just for one little fur ball of terror. And I can't deny the feeling that maybe Brittany will stay in my hotel room some nights if Princess Peach is along, knowing she'll want Lord Tubbs to get his flirt on.

"Can cats even fly on planes?" I grumble, knowing very well that they can, but it feels like I should argue just a little bit longer. I don't want her to know how easy it is for me to give into her just yet.

But the tug of her arm against my stomach, and the happy kiss she presses against my shoulder makes it pretty obvious she knows.

"We can always dress them up and pretend they're children, like Shaggy and Scooby did when they went to that freaky island. Except Scooby was dressed as a grandma, and he blew his cover when he tried to eat the cat on the plane. Wait a second," she pauses her rant, and I can't help the sleepy smile that overcomes me as I listen to her in the darkness of her room. "If he was going after a cat on the plane, then that means cats are allowed, and we don't have to dress them up," she concludes, my smile only growing.

"Good. I was worried there for a second," I say with the straightest face I can muster. She sees right through it, and tickles at my sides again until I'm begging her to stop between choppy laughs.

"I like making you laugh," she giggles, shifting until she's molded against my back again, and I can't ignore the flutter in my stomach at how comfortable and natural it is for her to do so.

"And why is that?" I manage to mutter out, hoping the shake in my voice is only in my head.

She's quiet for a while, her shallow breaths the only sound as they blow over the back of my neck, tickling me in a much different way than her hands had done moments before. "Because it's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard," she barely whispers.

She's the absolute cutest, and that too big feeling overwhelms me again. I've never met someone who could make me feel both extraordinarily happy and undeniably scared.

I know what it means, and I don't think I'm ready for that. But my body's made it pretty clear how it feels by the way it reacts to everything Brittany does. Whether I'm ready to admit it or not, there's no denying that the way I feel for Brittany is much more than a crush or simple like. From the moment our eyes met in the dim lighting of the club, and how she had so selflessly helped me when that guy wouldn't leave me alone, she had planted herself into my life. Every new thing I learn about her makes the roots grow deeper, spreading like wildfire through my veins. It pumps from my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes. Every smile, every touch, every kiss, just fuels that funny little feeling, and there's no point in trying to ignore it anymore.

It's cliché, and something I had made fun of when Quinn used to watch all those types of movies, claiming she believed in love at first sight and happy endings.

But it's hard not to believe when it's Brittany.

When it's all tiny freckles and cerulean blue. When it's bright smiles and buttercup hair. When it all comes together to form the perfect combination of curious beauty that makes it so hard to resist falling in love with her.

I never stood a chance.

Because Brittany never plays fair, especially when she's not even trying.

I swallow at the onslaught of feelings that threaten to overwhelm and bubble up my throat. I push it back down, forcing it to lie dormant for a little while longer, until I'm able to fully grasp what it all means.

I snuggle into her pillow, breathing in light lavender and fresh cotton, and pray that I'll have more control over all of this when I wake up.


	10. Chapter Nine

A/N: Thank you Charlie and Bekah. And thank you to all of you that continue to read and review. You are all so kind on here and on tumblr, and just thank you :)

* * *

**Chapter Nine – Don't Be Alarmed If I Fall Head Over Feet**

_Las Vegas, NV, June 2013._

* * *

"Are you scared?"

"No."

She smiles at me, that small one that just barely tugs at the corners of her lips. "Are you sure? 'Cause if that armrest required oxygen to survive, I'm pretty sure you would've killed it by now with how hard you're squeezing it." She pokes at the whites of my knuckles as she giggles just a little, like she wants to laugh at how cute I am, but doesn't want to hurt my feelings.

"I just don't really like flying," I admit through gritted teeth. I keep my gaze trained forward, not wanting to see the look on her face. But she pokes at my hand again, this time allowing her finger to trace its way down to my wrist, running along the bone there, gentle and soft. I turn to look at her and she offers a small shrug, smiling at me until I can't do anything but mirror it.

"I won't let you fall," she whispers, and my heart flutters. She's making fun, but being serious in all the ways that matter, and I don't know what to say in return. Before I can think better of it, I let go of the armrest and lace my fingers with hers, squeezing her hand as the pilot announces we're next for take off.

The rest of the crew and people traveling with us don't pay us any attention, and I'm grateful for it. Brittany runs her thumb over the skin between my pointer finger and thumb, and it's soothing to the point that I could probably fall asleep. The thought of missing the whole flight is inviting, but then Brittany's leaning her head down on my shoulder and I don't think I could miss my first plane trip with her even if I tried.

"I'm really happy you invited me," she says just as the plane begins to pick up speed. And when we're in the air moments later, my heart still beating in my stomach from her words, I realize she figured out exactly what to do to distract me, and I can't help but fall for her all over again. I squeeze her hand and lay my cheek against the top of her head where it still rests on my shoulder.

"I'm happy Sam made me go to that club," I reply a little while later, when the rush of taking off has faded to a comfortable stillness.

She doesn't say anything for a while, and I'm starting to think she may have fallen asleep, but then she moves her head and presses a small kiss to the underside of my jaw. It's fleeting and should barely count on the scale of kisses we've shared, but somehow it's my favorite.

It seems like a promise and a thank you.

And I know I need to say something in return, but I feel like whatever words I choose will fail in comparison to how perfect she is at declaring her feelings.

The light for our seatbelts goes off, and she's unbuckling hers and excusing herself to the bathroom before I can say anything.

All of a sudden I'm scared of flying again.

* * *

We land in Vegas around three, and it takes about an hour until we're making our way to our rooms at the Bellagio. We pretty much take up a whole floor, and Brittany gives me a sneaky smile when she puts her keycard in the door for the room right next to mine.

As soon as the door closes behind me I let Princess Peach out of her carrier, and she scampers across the floor like she's part of a stampede. She tears around the carpet and flings herself onto the king bed, and I kind of envy her. It would be really nice to just run around like a crazy person for a minute of two.

Or scream.

Screaming would be good too. Like that time in high school when Quinn and I went to our football field at midnight with cups of coffee in our hands and broken hearts on our sleeves. We screamed at the top of our lungs, watching as our breath pillowed into the dark air like smoke above our open mouths.

But screaming would definitely call attention to myself right now, and I don't have the words to explain why I want to scream.

I do the next best thing and plop down on the bed, arms and legs stretched like a starfish as I look up at the ceiling of my hotel room. I can hear Princess Peach scurry along the floor some more before she pounces on my stomach. I'm about to push her away before she can attack me like one of Scar's minions, but then she's yawning and curling in on herself, and the tiny bit of warmth she provides on my belly is welcoming.

There's a soft knock at my door, and I really don't want to move and disturb the peacefulness of this moment, but I have a sneaking suspicion the hand knocking at my door belongs to a certain beautiful blonde whose company in my hotel room is always allowed.

I scoop little miss fur ball into my arms and make my way to the door. Brittany's standing there, Lord Tubbington cradled in her arms, and she's shifting back and forth on her feet a little anxiously.

"He couldn't wait a second longer to finally meet his future wife," she says sweetly, her smile soft and pure. "I think I may have been talking about her so much that I've made him a little impatient," she giggles, and the sound warms my heart.

I'm not sure how someone so wonderful and perfect is standing outside the door of my hotel room, and sometimes I'm afraid if I blink she'll disappear.

I let her in and we set both of the cats on the bed in my room. I don't realize I'm holding my breath as Princess Peach takes a few tentative steps toward Lord Tubbington, until she comes running back into my lap, the fur on her tail puffed like she's been electrocuted.

"Maybe she thinks he's here to sell her cigarettes. He has been known to smuggle them and sell them on the black cat market," Brittany offers with a silent shrug of her shoulders.

I smile, because what else am I suppose to do when she's so adorable.

She joins me on the bed, and we both sit cross-legged, watching as Princess Peach keeps taking small steps toward Lord Tubbington, but ultimately turning around and hopping into my lap. I scratch her head and smile at how perfect this is. I've been to Vegas plenty of times, and somehow this moment, sitting here completely sober in leggings and a baggy sweater, with two cats and a ridiculously attractive girl trumps all the others.

"Have you called your mom and told her we landed yet?" I ask as Brittany mimics my actions and starts petting under Lord Tubbs's chin.

"Yeah. I called before I came over here. She says hi by the way." She smiles at me, and all of a sudden I'm blushing and feeling shy for no reason at all.

"That's good," I say as I tuck my chin to my chest and pretend Princess Peach needs my undivided attention for the moment. When I look back up at her, there's a look in her eyes I can't read. Almost as if she's wondering if she said the wrong thing or something. Maybe she told her mom about us already and she didn't want me to know that. "Can I ask what you told your mom? About us?" I elaborate when she looks at me with a curiously confused expression.

"Well, I mean she obviously knows who you are," she laughs out, but then turns serious as she pulls off a clump of hair from Lord Tubbington's back. "I told her we're friends," she states, but the slight hesitation in her voice makes it seem like there's more to it.

"Can I ask you more questions about your family?" She nods, and leans back on the pillows as she makes herself more comfortable. "Do your parents know about you? Like your past relationships with other girls and stuff?"

"Of course. They're totally cool about it." She grins when she sees Princess Peach leave my lap and investigate Lord Tubbington a little more closely. "My dad told me when I got my first boyfriend that I was allowed to like whoever I wanted as long as they treated me right and made me happy. And when I brought home my first girlfriend, he said the exact same thing."

I scoot up on the bed and lay down next to her, our shoulders and arms brushing as we watch Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum sniff each other like they've never seen another cat before. Princess Peach's fur has gone back to normal, but the little hiss she lets out when he tries to lick her ear is both highly amusing and slightly alarming. She's such a diva, and we both can't help but laugh at her.

"Was it hard for you in high school?" I question after we've been lying there for a little while.

"Not really. I mean, there were a few people who didn't really agree with it. But I didn't hide who I was. When senior prom came around, and I was currently dating this girl from my dance class, I didn't hesitate to bring her as my date. My friends were fine with it, and that's all that mattered to me." Her pinky finger pokes at mine before she links them together in the space between us.

She makes it sound so easy, and I'm kind of jealous of how brave she is. "What about your sister? I remember you saying it was her birthday a little bit ago. Was she cool with it all?"

There's an intake of breath next to me, but then dead silence. When I turn my head to look at her, her eyes have glossed over with tears, and I don't understand what I said wrong. I quickly move to lie on my side, propping myself up on my elbow, concern and confusion flooding my voice. "What's wrong? Did I ask too much? I'm sorry I just –"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong," she sniffles out as she wipes at her cheeks. She turns her body and lies on her side, and the sadness written all over her face makes me want to kiss her so badly. "Remember how I said my mom called on my sister's birthday because she was sad?" I nod, because of course I remember. I remember thinking how odd it was that her mom was sad, and what it had to do with her sister's birthday, or if it was just a coincidence. "My sister passed away a few years ago." Her voice is the most fragile I've ever heard it.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," I breathe out, instantly regretting bringing up her family. I unlink our pinkies and reach for her hand blindly, needing to touch her, to hold her somehow. She takes it immediately, and the small smile she gives me in return breaks my heart. "We can change the subject. I didn't know."

"I know you didn't. It's okay," she says softly, and we're moving closer to each other without thinking about it. The hand that's currently not laced with hers comes up to wipe away her fallen tears, and the way she nuzzles her cheek into my hand makes my heart melt for her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask hesitantly, and watch as her eyes flit over my face like they're looking for any ounce of insincerity or uncertainty. I hope more than anything she doesn't find any, because I've never wanted to make someone feel safe like I do with her.

She closes her eyes and slips one of her knees between my legs, squeezing my hand like this is one of the most important things she's ever going to tell me. I wait patiently, watching as the lines on her face contract and relax over and over again, like she's struggling to find the words.

"She was my best friend," she says, her breath quiet and fragile, like cracked glass that's just about to break and shatter. "She was three years younger than me, but we did everything together. She was the first person I told when I realized I liked girls, and I'll never forget what she said. She's the one who gave me the courage to be who I was without worrying about other people's opinions." Her voice fades off like she's reliving the memory in her head, and all I can do is watch, like it's the climax of my favorite movie, and looking away would only keep me from seeing it all unfold.

"What'd she say?" I ask when she remains quiet for a few minutes.

She opens her eyes, and I can see the hurt there in them, brighter and more prominent than I ever remember them being before. I don't know how I missed it all written in the lines of blue, but I find that I can't look away now. "That she was glad my big heart wouldn't be limited to one gender."

I know I'm tearing up, and I know I shouldn't be, but it's impossible not to. I try to smile and squeeze her hand, and she gives me a watery one in return.

Again, I can't tell if it's a promise or a thank you.

"Can I ask what happened?"

She takes another deep breath, but her face contorts in pain this time, and I want to tell her she's safe, that I won't let anything happen to her ever again. But I don't know how to say that without revealing so much more than I'm ready to admit.

"You don't have to," I whisper, running my finger over her knuckles. She already looks so broken. I can't imagine what she'll look like after she tells me. I don't know if I can take seeing her so sad.

"I want to," she states firmly. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth as she begins to chew on it. There's something so wonderful about her wanting to share her pain with me, and I lean forward just a little to kiss the corner of her mouth, soft and sure.

She smiles, small and beautiful when I pull away, and I want to kiss her again and again until she knows she's safe.

"But I don't really want to talk about it right now," she says it like a question, and I nod in understanding. Of course she doesn't have to tell me now. I can wait.

I'm pretty sure I'd wait forever for her.

"What do you want to do then? We're in Vegas, and we don't have anywhere to be until nine tomorrow morning." I point out with a little wiggle of my eyebrows that has her giggle bubbling from her in seconds.

I really don't think I'll ever stop trying to make that heavenly sound leave her perfect lips.

"I don't really want to go out tonight," she says, crinkling her nose like the actual thought disgusts her. "Celebrating should always be for after the show."

Her logic really is the best, and I'm not quite sure how I've managed to walk through life without her wisdom. There's a part of me that never wants to let her go for the simple fact that I don't think I'll be able to go back to my life before. I won't know how to see things without the color Brittany's introduced to me, and that sudden realization makes my throat go dry instantly.

I've fallen head over heels for this girl.

It's her fault really.

A sneaky look flashes across her face, accompanied by an almost evil smirk, and the hair at the base of my neck stands to attention. Whatever she's about to suggest has me equal parts intrigued and frightened.

She props herself up more on her elbow until she's looking down at me. "Do you smoke?"

My eyes narrow at first, thinking she's talking about cigarettes, and I wonder how that has anything to do with what she wants to suggest for tonight. But the flash in her eyes and the quirk of her brow clues me in to what she's actually asking.

"Oh. Um, not on a regular basis or anything. But I have, yeah." I don't know why I'm nervous. It's not like everyone in the industry doesn't do some form of it, but her blatant question catches me off guard.

"Well my roommate gets this good stuff, and she let me take some before we left." She shifts on the bed until she's almost hovering over me, her smile now more of a devilish grin, and it only makes her cuter in a thousand new ways. "Want to get high with me Santana Lopez?" She asks before dipping her head and capturing my lips in the most provocative and sweetest kiss, of which I'm sure is her way of making sure I won't say no.

Like I would ever say no to her.

If she weren't the sweetest person alive, I'd swear she was part devil with how much she makes me want to sin.

She pulls away with a wet pop that nearly makes me want to whimper. The look in her eyes as she stares down at me doesn't really help either.

"Okay. But we need to stock up on food first, because I'm not stumbling out of this hotel room high and having it recorded on some cheap ass cell phone for the next YouTube hit," I ramble with a slight roll of my eyes, and the tiny laugh and quick peck I get in return is worth the slight nagging at the back of my head that's telling me this might not be the greatest idea.

* * *

There's a little store in the lobby of the hotel, and we take our time collecting some snacks. Brittany suggested we should try and guess what the other liked, and minutes later as I'm staring at the rows of candy before me, I can't decide which to pick because I'm pretty sure Brittany would like every kind.

I settle on a bag of Skittles, a Twix bar, and a bag of cheddar and sour cream chips. She seems satisfied with my selection when I show her, and the fact that she manages to pick my two favorite kinds of candy is ridiculous. I'm either very transparent, or just don't know how to be anything but an open book around her.

I feel like two teenagers trying to get away with doing something we shouldn't as we giggle our way to the register. It's refreshing to not be so cold and professional all the time in public, and I can't help but smile more when she offers to pay for it all.

I don't let her, telling her they can just charge it to the room, but it's nice having someone at least offer.

She links her arm with mine when we're in the elevator, and my stomach is already a fluttering mess. She makes me feel giddy and happy all over, and it's such a new feeling that I'm having trouble containing myself in public, because I just want to experience it more and more.

She practically pulls me through the door of my hotel room, and we almost forget about our plans when we see Lord Tubbington and Princess Peach curled up together in the middle of the bed.

"How long were we gone?" Brittany whispers, like she's afraid to jinx the moment.

"Apparently long enough for her to get over herself and realize how big of a bitch she was being."

"Santana," she scolds, nudging me in the side with her elbow. "She's still a baby. You don't call a baby a bitch."

I give her a look to silently ask if she's being serious, and she gives me one back that reads she most definitely is.

"I'm gonna go get the stuff. I'll be right back," she says before she kisses my cheek and leaves me with the bag of snacks and two sleepy kitties.

I walk to the window and open it, letting the lukewarm desert air waft into the room. Lord Tubbington peeks an eye at me, but otherwise ignores the commotion, and I kind of want to flick him off for no real reason at all. Maybe because he's gotten to sleep with both Brittany and Princess Peach more times than I have, and that's just unacceptable.

Before I can humiliate myself by fighting with a cat, Brittany knocks at the door, and I can already tell I should just ask for two keys to my room in every city we stop.

She skips into the room and plops herself down on the bed, somehow interrupting the cats in a way that doesn't seem rude in the slightest. She pulls out a baggie of weed and empty cigar paper, as I take a towel from the bathroom and stuff it against the crack of the door.

I'm not sure if there's anything sexier than watching Brittany roll a blunt, the way her fingers wrap it and she slides the crease along her lips so she can seal it shut with her tongue.

I sit down next to her as she flicks her lighter, and I can't look away as she brings the flame to the tip of the joint that's dangling from her lips. She inhales and holds the smoke in her mouth before exhaling in a long sensual puff.

She's sexy in ways I don't think I'll ever be.

She's sexy in all the ways that make me want her.

She takes another hit before passing it to me, and the way she stares at me unblinking is almost a challenge, and I have no idea what for. But I put the paper to my mouth and inhale, allowing the smoke to pool in my mouth. I can't help but sigh at how right Brittany was. This stuff is good.

She watches me exhale with a small smirk, and the already forming glaze over her eyes is almost dreamlike. Like we're in the middle of some fantasy, and I'm not a hundred percent sure whose fantasy it is.

When she takes the joint back and breathes in deep, she motions with her finger for me to come closer. It's not until she's tilting her head with her lips still puffed with smoke that I realize what she wants, and I instantly comply. When our mouths meet, she parts her lips and I mirror it, allowing her to blow the smoke into my mouth like a new kind of foreplay. When she pulls back, she opens her eyes and watches as I blow out what's left, her lips quirking into the most pleased of smiles.

We finish the joint and the weightless feeling that settles over me, and the cloudiness that drowns my mind is so very wonderful.

Brittany's giggling at nothing and everything, and it makes my stomach flutter like it's filled with little insect wings. I fall back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, confused when I hear music flitting through my ears. At first I think I'm hearing things, but then Brittany's sort of singing along and it's apparent she's the one responsible for the added noise.

I lift my head to look at her, and have to hold my breath when I see her dancing in the middle of the room, her own hands playing through her hair as her hips move in ways that should be illegal. I prop myself up on my elbows as I watch her, the warm feeling in my belly growing with each movement she makes.

When her hands travel from her hair down her neck, her eyes open and her dancing pauses for a moment when she realizes she has an audience. But then she's smirking at me and her hips continue like they wouldn't know how to stop if they tried.

"I like dancing when I'm high," she breathes, and her voice sounds like liquid chocolate, warm and sweet as it leaves her mouth.

"You like dancing all the time," I laugh out. My stomach tingles as she bends her knees and slowly works her way back up.

"And you like watching me," she fires back, and my hips jerk at the suggestive playfulness in her tone.

When will I learn not to play with Brittany?

Because I will always, always lose.

She floats toward me, the smirk on her face and the challenge in her eyes never fading. My knees dangle off the bed, and she's dancing between them within the blink of an eye, her hands back to tangling in her hair as she does it.

I bite my lower lip in frustration, my skin itching for hers as she moves. When her thigh brushes against mine, it feels like feathers and ice, turning me on instantly. She's good sober, but now that my skin already feels on fire, she's too damn good, and I know I'm losing control over my body's reaction to her.

"Britt," I whine, blinking lazy and slow as she giggles at me. Everything feels bigger, stronger, and when she leans forward and brushes her finger along my lips, like she's investigating where the sound had come from, I feel her touch everywhere.

She places her knees on either side of my hips and sits down on my lap, her hips still moving to the beat of the music.

I'm more than thankful I'm not a guy right now, because it would be blatantly obvious how turned on I am.

"You know why I like dancing?" she purrs, and all I can do is gulp and shake my head. "Because it's my favorite way to communicate. Sometimes words confuse me and I mix them up, but I never have a problem speaking with my body." She dips her head and nips at my jaw, kissing her way to my neck painfully slowly. "Bodies never lie," she hums against my skin.

I swallow hard, my hands coming up to grip at her still moving hips. "Is that so?" I breathe out, my voice shaky and quiet. I feel like some type of spell has been cast with the way my skin is crawling for her. Like something is running through my blood that has her name written all over it, and I'm panting with how hot it's making me feel.

"Uh huh," she smiles before biting at my neck, taking my skin and sucking it into her mouth. My hips jerk almost violently into her, and the moan she pulls from me almost burns my throat with its need to be heard. "Words can hide the truth. But bodies can't. They crave things to the point of desperation," she husks as her lips trace further down my neck, to a new place she can bruise and mark as hers. "They want until they have, and they won't apologize for it."

My nails dig into the skin at her hips, where her shirt has ridden up and the warmth of her invades my hands like magic. Like everything she's feeling has somehow manifested itself into me and I can feel it too, along with everything she's making me feel on my own.

It's maddening and borderline crazy, but when her teeth sink into my skin, I can't find it in me to care.

My hands scratch up her back, pulling her shirt with them, and she doesn't hesitate to help me pull the material over her head. I look at her without shame, and when my eyes drift back to hers, there's a look in her eyes that's telling me I'm proving her point exactly.

I pull her toward me by the back of her head and crash our lips together, hungry and wild, like the spell between us has been broken, and now all I want is her. To hear her. To taste her. To feel her.

Her tongue slides along mine like smooth silk, and I can't help the way I suck on it greedily, like I won't ever get enough. Her fingers tug at the hem of my shirt, and she pulls away long enough to silently ask me if it's okay.

I nod, and a second later she's thrown it over my head and onto the floor, her eyes appreciating what she's uncovered. She licks her lips and I groan, my skin burning to the point where I'm almost sweating. The effect she has on me is embarrassing really, but I can't stop it from happening.

I watch as her hands roam over the plane of my stomach, my muscles contracting on reflex, and then she's staring at me, deep and certain as her hands skirt up to my breasts. I inhale as she palms them over my bra, and when she squeezes I almost buck her off my lap.

She smiles and leans down to kiss me again, working her hands over my bare skin as she does, and giggling at each sound I make. When she's unclasped my bra, and her fingers are tickling at my spine to remove it, I feel both free and wound up so tightly that I think I might explode.

She kisses a trail down my jaw and neck as she slides my bra from my body, and when her lips kiss over my boob to wrap around a nipple, I'm pretty sure a part of me does explode.

Her mouth is so warm and soft, and as she tugs lightly with her teeth, she pulls something from me that I don't think I even knew existed. My hands are clawing at her back for her bra clasp, almost desperate and animalistic. She continues to work her mouth between the valley of my breasts, before sucking on my other nipple, and I'm afraid if I don't get her bra off now, I'm going to internally combust.

She seems to sense my urgency and removes herself from my chest with a happy, sly smirk, her hands reaching back to undo her own bra. She slides it off her shoulders with a daring look in her eyes, and I lick my lips as her beautiful body is uncovered.

Even though I've seen her like this before, somehow she's more beautiful now. I feel like I can't breathe as the mixture of the setting sun and the lights from the city cascade over her skin, making her look like the most precious stained glass.

"You're so, so beautiful," I admit in barely a whisper, the words leaving my mouth on their own accord. I watch her chest as she takes in a deep breath, my hands coming up to touch her tentatively. When I smooth over the roundness of her, and feel her nipples pebble over my palms, I feel something inside of me come to life. I bow my head and kiss over her chest, hoping I'm doing it right, but somehow knowing she wouldn't care if I did it wrong.

Her skin is smooth like cool silk, and soft like warm flannel. I let the buzz I'm feeling swirling in my head take control as my lips glide over her like skates on fresh ice. When my tongue rolls over one of her nipples, I freeze. I can feel her losing control of her own breathing as her chest moves frantically against my face.

All of it is too overwhelming, and even though my skin is on fire, and the pit of my stomach is clenched so tight in need of some type of release, I have to pull away from her.

When her eyes find mine, searching and pleading, I feel unbelievably sorry and guilty. Because I know she wants exactly what I want, but I'm just not ready.

I can't do this with her before I have the guts to even tell her I like her.

She should know I do. Like she said, bodies don't lie. But she needs to hear the words. She was brave enough to tell me she liked me, so why can't I do the same for her?

"Are you okay?" she asks breathless, her chest still heaving with want. Her hand comes up to stroke away a piece of hair from my cheek, and I can't do anything but lean into her touch. "This isn't going slow is it?"

I shake my head with a laugh that she easily returns, and just like that she makes it seem like I'm not crazy for needing to stop.

She's so perfect, I literally have no idea what she's doing with someone like me.

"I'm so sorry," I almost cry, because my emotions are heightened and I can't seem to control anything at the moment.

"Don't be," she says sweetly, wiping at my cheeks like she's preventing the tears from actually falling. "I think we let the weed go to our heads," she giggles, and god I want her so badly.

I just need to tell her I like her. I just need to open my mouth and say the words, and everything will be fine.

Because once I tell her I like her, I can tell her I'm scared. I'm scared of opening myself up to her, and I'm scared of not knowing what I'm doing.

When I open my mouth to do just that, there's a buzzing from the nightstand where her phone is lit up. She gives me an apologetic smile and kisses my forehead, before sliding off my lap and sauntering over to her phone.

The fact that she has no qualms whatsoever about walking around my hotel room topless is yet another reason why I will always, always lose. She doesn't play fair, and I doubt she ever will.

She looks at me over her shoulder after checking her phone. "I need to take this. But how about when I come back, we put in some One Tree Hill, eat away our high, and go to bed early?" she smiles as she pulls her shirt over her head.

"Okay," I answer with a little sadness, watching as she exits the room with a soft click.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment to collect myself, before reaching for my shirt and pulling it on. The sudden rush of coolness that settles over me sobers me up pretty quickly, and I kind of wish we had another blunt to smoke so I can feel that incredible high again. So I can listen to my body instead of my head. So I can give myself to Brittany without having to put it into words.

I almost forget we have two cats in the room, when I accidentally step on Princess Peach's tail and she lets out a shrill hiss. Before I can even bend down to comfort her and apologize, Lord Tubbington's in my face, looking at me like I just killed his best friend.

It's kind of cute how protective he is of her already, but it's becoming more obvious him and I are going to have it out one of these days.

I pull the window closed and settle back down on the bed with the bags of snacks. When Brittany returns moments later with the second season of One Tree Hill, and the sweetest and most innocent smile, the frustration I feel fades immediately. She bounces down on the bed next to me, tapping my leg like she's a little girl excited for her first sleepover.

I relax into her side with ease, happy and content, and when her fingers slide through my hair, teasing out the knots, I know there's nothing I would rather be doing before I fall asleep.

* * *

We do a run through of the show on the new stage, and I can't stop trading secret smiles with Brittany as we move through the steps. My heart pounds against my ribs when I watch her do one of the dances, reminding me of all the ways she moves her body when it's just the two of us.

When it's time to perform, she pulls me off to the side, shadowed in the darkness of the curtains, and nips at my ear. "Try not to stare at me too much," she laughs into my skin, before kissing her way to my lips.

If she soon doesn't learn that she makes it so very hard to perform after she does stuff like this, I'm absolutely certain I'm going to stumble on stage with how dizzy she makes me.

She continues to press a series of quick kisses to my lips, each one separated with the biggest smile upon her face, and all I want to do is stay back here with her and tell her how wonderful she is.

But the queuing of the first track begins to play, and the crowd begins to cheer, and I have to pull away before I get swept away with her instead.

Not that I would mind.

But I don't think that would be good for my record sales.

Brittany manages to sneak in a burning touch as she spins from one spot to the next, her hand trailing from my hip to the small of my back, and I almost forget the lyrics I'm singing. My own damn lyrics, and the blush I'm sure is covering my cheeks just makes her smirk and wink at me like it's all a game.

And somehow it becomes the best type of game. Seeing how far we can go in public without giving anything away.

She links our arms by the elbows when we exit the arena, but also pulls one of her dancer friends along on her other side. The waiting paparazzi take pictures of us walking, and for the first time I'm not scared of them capturing Brittany and I together, because it simply looks like three girls having fun.

And that's when it clicks. Brittany and I can be friends in public. Brittany and I can get our pictures taken together, and we can do stuff outside of the privacy of our homes, and no one will know that when there are no cameras around, her hands roam into territory that is a lot less friendly. No one will know that she spends her nights with me, or that she kisses me good morning and good night.

The fluttering excitement I feel at just how fun it will be to play the public and the media causes me to laugh at myself, and Brittany looks over at me with a quizzical look upon her face. She arches her brow in question, but I just shake my head as I smirk up at her. "I'll tell you later."

She nods and smiles, like she's already clued into the game, and bumps her hip against mine as we make our way toward the cars that'll take us back to our hotel.

We decide to go out and celebrate with the other dancers and back up singers, and I find it very difficult to pick out an outfit to wear now that I want to tease Brittany. I settle for a short black sequin dress and some heels, my hair curled and loose around my face, and when she shows up at my door in a green dress that makes her eyes pop underneath her long lashes, I know she had the same thought when she picked out her outfit.

We sit in the VIP section of the Bank nightclub, and before I know it, Brittany has ordered me a drink, and challenges me with a look in her eyes as she takes a sip of her own.

I take the challenge and gulp it down, our eyes never wavering over the tops of our glasses.

There's a part of me that knows it's probably not a good idea for us to get drunk in public, but it's dark and discreet, and it was never a crime for two girls to dance in a nightclub. Friends do that all the time.

I beckon her over with the curl of my finger, and she presses her ear to my mouth so she can hear me over the music. "Dance with me," I state more than ask, my lips grazing the shell of her ear. She pulls back slightly so she can look me in the eye, but doesn't wait long before she's standing and offering me her hand.

She leads me to the dance floor, and pulls my arms up and over her shoulders, locking them in place behind her head. Her hands fall to my waist, and I let her lead me in whatever dance she wants, taking me with her to whatever escape she thinks we need.

My body moves with hers easily, and the burning in my belly and over my skin only intensifies by the craving look in her eyes. I know she wants me, and the shiver that runs down my spine at that thought forces a moan from my lips. Luckily the music drowns it out, but I know she heard it.

She dips her head close, until her lips are brushing along my neck and ear. "You're very, very sexy," she purrs, punctuating each word with a subtle kiss.

My stomach coils and tightens, and she grips my waist harder like she knows she's making my knees weak. "You don't play fair," I groan back, my fingers tangling in her hair to keep me from falling.

It's too late though. I've already fallen head over feet for Brittany.

I remember what I wanted to do last night, to tell her how I've fallen for her. I draw closer to her, pressing my lips near her ear, and I can feel her tilt her head in my direction so she's sure to hear me.

"I like you," I tell her before something can prevent me. Her body stops dancing for a moment, and she pulls back until there's dark blue staring at me, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "A lot," I add, watching as her smile grows until there's a look in her eyes that resembles one from last night.

It's something between like and lust, and maybe something more, and my heart beats for her in time with the bass of the music we're dancing to.

"I just wanted you to know in case you didn't," I shout over the hum of the club, my fingers scratching at the back of her head.

There's more I want to say. There's more I need to say. But somehow that feels like enough. And when Brittany leans in and whispers in my ear, I know we both understand that what's left unsaid will be declared eventually. "I told you Santana, bodies never lie."

* * *

We stumble back to my hotel room, arms linked as our feet betray how sober we're trying to be. She's giggling against my neck, her breath warm and wet, and my arm wraps around her waist to keep her sort of standing next to me. If pictures of us were to be taken right now, I know I would have a hundred calls from my management team, including Sam and Quinn, and somehow that doesn't make me put distance between Brittany and I.

I just hold her closer, our feet tripping over each other's as I open the door and push us both in. Once the door clicks behind us, she turns and pins me to it, somehow a lot more sober than she was a second before.

"Hi," she smiles, leaning in to kiss my nose.

"Hi," I grin back, wiggling my nose as she kisses it again.

"Earlier today, that was the first time I was paparazzied." She leans back and quirks her brow, biting at the corner of her mouth. "I don't think that's a word."

"It's not," I laugh and shake my head. She looks offended for a second and I can't help but kiss her, quick and soft, and love the way she giggles in return.

Her hands slip down to my hips, her thumbs stroking over the fabric of my dress as she grins at me. "Still. I felt like a celebrity."

"Welcome to my life," I sort of groan, and her smile drops a little. "It's not always as glamorous as people think."

She steps back and stares at me, her hands still firm where they rest at my waist. She doesn't say anything. She just looks at me, and I grow uneasy under her imploring gaze. Is she looking for me to explain more? I open my mouth to ask, but then her lips are on mine, hot and hard. Her rough kisses push my head against the back of the door, and I let out a satisfied grunt at the way her hands make quick use of the short hem of my dress. It's pulled up and over my head before I have time to think about it, her lips biting along my jaw and down my neck. Her hands scratch up my stomach until she's grabbing at my boobs, and I throw my head back as I gasp for air.

My skin is burning for her, and every touch she places upon me has me squirming and wanting her so badly.

But there's a fuzziness in my head that won't go away, and I know I don't want her like this.

I don't want to be drunk and stumbling our way through. I don't want her fingers already fumbling with my bra clasp when the only way I'm standing is because I'm half propped against the door.

With as much strength as I can muster, my hands come up to her shoulders to push her back. Her lips leave my skin with a groan of displeasure. But she must see something written on my face, because the hunger in her eyes fades as her hands stop clawing at my back.

"Britt," I pant out, my head going dizzier with the way she's breathing in front of me. I've never had someone want me the way she wants me. She doesn't just want what I have to show. It's scary and intoxicating, and I almost fling myself at her, knowing she would always catch me and never let me fall.

"Sorry," she says shyly, bowing her head like she's done something wrong.

She hasn't. She's done everything so, so right.

"I told you I get carried away when I'm with you," she breathes, her fingers tracing down my spine softly, like she's admiring something that could easily break.

"Please don't ever apologize," I tell her honestly. She looks back up at me when she hears my tone of voice, her eyes searching mine with curious wonder. "You're just too good at what you do," I admit, hoping she understands. The flash of pride in her eyes and the curl of her lips tells me she does, and I smile at her as my hands circle around her back and clasp together at the small of it. "You're too damn good, and I'm just not ready yet."

"It's okay," she says, her voice sweet and bubbly. Her hands pull me closer to her, wrapping me up in a hug, and I realize how little I'm wearing when my stomach scratches against her dress.

She leads me back to the bed and sits me down on the edge, careful and gentle, and I don't think I'll ever get used to way she takes care of me. I watch as she takes her dress off, throwing it to the ground as she steps out of her shoes. My eyes stay on her as she drops to her knees in front of me. My stomach plummets at the thought of what she's about to do, but then her soft hands are on my feet, taking my shoes off for me and setting them on the floor beside the bed.

She stands without a word, her eyes trained on mine, and slowly pushes me back until we're lying down. She pulls the blankets up over us as settle on our sides facing each other, as if looking away would break whatever spell we've found ourselves under.

"When I was younger I really, really wanted a pet snake. I thought they were so cool, and it always fascinated me how they moved around," Brittany begins, her finger running over my forehead as she pushes a piece of my hair behind my ear. She scoots closer to me on the bed, our bare legs tangling together beneath the blankets. "I begged and begged my parents to let me have one, saying how it would teach me responsibility and stuff. And when they finally agreed, I thought I was going to be the happiest little girl ever. I was so excited to show my new pet to all my friends."

She pauses and looks at me, her lips parted in a wide smile, but her eyes are serious as they stay on mine. "When I found out what snakes eat, I was devastated. There was no way I'd be able to feed it live mice." She shudders as she says it, and for some reason I do too.

It has nothing to do with the story she's telling.

"I wanted a snake so badly, but I wasn't ready for one," she finishes, and I think I know where she's going with this, but I'm not sure how I feel about comparing sex with Brittany to feeding a snake disgusting rodents. "So then my parents got me Lord Tubbington. Sometimes the best things come when you're not looking for them," she grins before kissing me.

My heart hammers in my chest at how flawless Brittany's logic always is. How she makes me realize things about myself in ways that should seem ridiculous, but somehow are perfectly phrased.

It should unnerve me, how she's able to read me and understand parts of me that I don't even understand, but it only makes me fall for her harder.

She holds me close as the lights and sounds of the city play outside of the window of my hotel room. Vegas has always been loud and bright and hectic every time I've come. But lying here with Brittany, in the quiet of the hotel room, with her body wrapped around the curve of mine, has made this trip worth all the craziness of performing.

Brittany's like a waiting fire on a cold winter day. She's calming and serene, beautiful and captivating. Her flames lick at my skin like she's trying to burn me and keep me warm. And all I want to do is keep watching her, until the last of her flames die and she needs help to keep going.

"How do you do that?" I ask after a while, my cheek pressed to her chest as I listen to her heart beat beneath it.

"Do what?" One of her hands snakes through my hair, unraveling me in every possible way.

"Be so perfect," I answer automatically. "Know exactly what to say to make everything seem so simple and easy."

She takes in a breath, and I can feel the way her lungs expand under my cheek. I've never felt so close to someone before, and I don't think I've ever appreciated how beautiful being intimate with someone could be. Sex is wonderful in its own way, but lying tangled with someone like this is heavenly.

"A lot of people don't see me the way you do," she breathes out, and my heart aches at her words. How could anybody see Brittany as anything but perfect? It doesn't make any sense to me.

She makes me feel like I finally have a reason to do what I do. Like I finally have a purpose.

And Brittany deserves to feel that too. She deserves to have someone tell her how amazing she is. How talented and beautiful she is. How the way she says things is better than the way anybody else could word it.

And I want nothing more than to be that person for her.

I curl up against her, intertwining our bodies more than what I thought was possible. I brush my lips against her collarbone, breathing her in and painting her skin in a faint dusting of tiny kisses. "You're special Brittany. I don't care what other people think, because you are perfect to me."

She sighs beneath me, wrapping her arms around me tighter, and I don't miss the way she sucks in a tiny breath like she can't believe what I'm saying.

"Thank you Santana," she whispers, kissing the top of my head. We lay in blissful silence, allowing the hum of the city around us to lull us to sleep. I'm about to drift off completely before I hear her whisper something more, very soft and quiet as if she thinks I'm already asleep and she doesn't want me to hear. "You're more lovable than you give yourself credit for."

I'm still a little drunk and way too sleepy to understand what her words mean exactly, but the flutter in my stomach doesn't go unnoticed.

I'm pretty sure Brittany planted the butterflies there on purpose, so that whenever she says something or does something endearing, they'll flap their wings and make it a hundred times more charming.

I don't mind at all really.


End file.
